UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT    LOS  ANGELES 


SM*  KE  AND  STEEL 
SMOKE  NIGHTS 

SMOKE  AND  STEEL  3 

FIVE  TOWNS  ON  THE  B.   &  O.  II 

WORK  GANGS  12 

PENNSYLVANIA  14 

WHIRLS  .     ,      .  IS 

PEOPLE  WHO  TVIUST 

PEOPLE   WHO   MUST  19 

ALLEY   RATS  2O 

ELEVENTH  AVENUE  RACKET  21 

HOME  FIRES  22 

HATS  23 

THEY  ALL  WANT  TO  PLAY  HAMLET  24 

THE  MAYOR  OF  GARY  25 

OMAHA  26 

GALOOTS  27 

CRABAPPLE  BLOSSOMS  28 

REAL  ESTATE  NEWS  3O 

MANUAL  SYSTEM  31 

STRIPES  3  2 

HONKY  TONK  IN  CLEVELAND,  OHIO  33 

CRAPSHOOTERS  34 

SOUP  3  5 

CLINTON  SOUTH  OF  POLK  36 

BLUE  ISLAND  INTERSECTION  37 

««*ED-HEADED  RESTAURANT  CASHIER  38 

BOY  AND  FATHER  39 

CLEAN  CURTAINS  41 

CRIMSON   CHANGES  PEOPLE  42 

NEIGHBORS  44 

CAHOOTS  45 

BLUE  MAROONS  46 

THE  HANGMAN  AT  HOME  47 

MAN,  THE   MAN-HUNTER  48 

THE  SINS  OF   KALAMAZOO  49 

BROKEN-FACE  GARGOYLES 

BROKEN-FACE  GARGOYLES  57 

APRONS  OF  SILENCE  59 


372115 


_ 

^ DEATH  SNIPS  PROUD   MEN  6O 

GOOD-NIGHT  6 1 

SHIRT  62 

JAZZ  FANTASIA  63 

DO  YOU  WANT  AFFIDAVITS?  64 

OLD-FASHIONED   REQUITED  LOVE  65 

PURPLE   MARTINS  66 

BRASS   KEYS  68 

PICK  OFFS  69 

MANUFACTURED  GODS  70 

MASK  71 

PLAYTHINGS  OF  THE  WIND 

FOUR  PRELUDES  ON  PLAYTHINGS  OF  THE  WIND  75 

BROKEN  TABERNACLES  78 

OSSAWATOMIE  79 

LONG  GUNS  8  I 

DUSTY  DOORS  82 

FLASH  CRIMSON  83 

THE  LAWYERS  KNOW  TOO  MUCH  85 

CLOSERS  87 

PLACES  88 

THREES  89 

THE  LIARS  9O 

PRAYERS  AFTER  WORLD  WAR  93 

A.  E.  F.  94 

BAS-RELIEF  95 

CARLOVINGIAN    DREAMS  96 

BRONZES  97 

LET  LOVE  GO  ON  98 

KILLERS  99 

CLEAN    HANDS  IOO 

THREE  GHOSTS  IO2 

PENCILS  IO3 

JUG  IO5 

AND  THIS  WILL  BE  ALL?  IO6 

HOODLUMS  107 

YES,  THE   DEAD  SPEAK  TO  US  IQf) 

MIST  FORMS 

CALLS  I  I  5 

SEA- WASH  Il6 


SILVER  WIND  117 

EVENING  WATERFALL  I  I  8 

CRUCIBLE  119 

SUMMER  STARS  1 2O 

THROW  ROSES  121 

JUST  BEFORE  APRIL  CAME  122 

STARS,  SONGS,  FACES  123 

SANDPIPERS  124 

THREE  VIOLINS  12$ 

THE  WIND  SINGS  WELCOME  IN  EARLY  SPRING  126 

TAWNY  127 

SLIPPERY  128 

HELGA  129 

BABY  TOES  I  3O 

PEOPLE   WITH  PROUD  CHINS  13! 

WINTER  MILK  132 

SLEEPYHEADS  133 

SUMACH  AND  BIRDS  134 

WOMEN  WASHING  THEIR  HAIR  135 

PEACH  BLOSSOMS  136 

HALF  MOON  IN  A  HIGH  WIND  137 

REMORSE  138 

RIVER  MOONS  139 

SAND  SCRIBBLINGS  I4O 

HOW  YESTERDAY  LOOKED  141 

PAULA  142 

LAUGHING  BLUE  STEEL  143 
THEY  ASK  EACH  OTHER  WHERE  THEY  CAME  FROM  144 

HOW  MUCH?  145 

THROWBACKS  146 

WIND  SONG  147 

THREE  SPRING  NOTATIONS  ON  BIPEDS  148 

SANDHILL  PEOPLE  I5O 

FAR   ROCKAWAY  NIGHT  TILL   MORNING  151 

HUMMING  BIRD  WOMAN  152 

BUCKWHEAT  153 

BLUE  RIDGE  154 

VALLEY  SONG  155 

MIST  FORMS  156 

PIGEON  157 

CHASERS  158 

HORSE   FIDDLE  159 


TIMBER  WINGS  l6l 

NIGHT  STUFF  I  62 

SPANISH  163 

SHAGBARK    HICKORY  164 

THE  SOUTH  WIND  SAY  SO  165 

ACCOMPLISHED  FACTS 

ACCOMPLISHED   FACTS  169 

GRIEG  BEING  DEAD  I  JQ 

CHORDS  lyi 

BOGHEADS  1 72 

TRINITY  PLACE  173 

PORTRAIT  1 74 

POTOMAC   RIVER   MIST  175 

JACK  LONDON  AND   O.   HENRY  176 

HIS  OWN  FACE   HIDDEN  177 

CUPS  OF   COFFEE  178 

PASSPORTS 

SMOKE  ROSE  GOLD  l8l 

TANGIBLES  I  8  2 

NIGHT  MOVEMENT NEW  YORK  183 

NORTH  ATLANTIC  184 

FOG  PORTRAIT  I  88 

FLYING  FISH  I  89 

HOME  THOUGHTS  1 90 

IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PALACE  igi 

TWO  ITEMS  192 

STREETS  TOO  OLD  193 

SAVOIR  FAIRE  194 

MOHAMMED  BEK  HADJETLACHE  196 

HIGH    CONSPIRATORIAL   PERSONS  197 

BALTIC  FOG  NOTES  198 

CIRCLES  OF  DOORS 

CIRCLES   OF  DOORS  2O3 

HATE  2O4 

TWO  STRANGERS  BREAKFAST  2O5 

SNOW  2OO 

DANCER  2O7 

PLASTER  2O8 
CURSE  OF  A  RICH  POLISH  PEASANT  ON  HIS  SISTER  WHO 

RAN  AWAY  WITH  A   WILD   MAN  2Og 


WOMAN  WITH  A  PAST  2IO 

WHITE  HANDS  211 

AN  ELECTRIC  SIGN   GOES  DARK  212 

THEY  BUY  WITH   AN  EYE  TO  LOOKS  214 

PROUD  AND  BEAUTIFUL  2 1  5 

TELEGRAM  2l6 

GLIMMER  217 

WHITE  ASH  2l8 

TESTIMONY  REGARDING  A  GHOST  219 
PUT    OFF    THE    WEDDING    FIVE    TIMES    AND    NOBODY 

COMES  TO  IT  22O 

BABY  VAMPS  222 

VAUDEVILLE  DANCER  223 

BALLOON    FACES  224 

HAZE 

HAZE  229 

CADENZA  232 

MEMORANDA  233 

POTOMAC  TOWN  IN   FEBRUARY  234 

BUFFALO  DUSK  235 

CORN  HUT  TALK  236 

BRANCHES  238 

RUSTY  CRIMSON  239 

LETTER  S  24O 

WEEDS  241 

NEW  FARM  TRACTOR  242 

PODS  243 

HARVEST  SUNSET  244 

NIGHTS  NOTHINGS  AGAIN  245 

PANELS 

PANELS  253 
DAN  254 
WHIFFLETREE  255 
MASCOTS  256 
THE  SKYSCRAPER  LOVES  NIGHT  257 
NEVER  BORN  258 
THIN  STRIPS  259 
FIVE  CENT  BALLOONS  260 
MY  PEOPLE  26l 
SWIRL  262 


WISTFUL  263 

BASKET  264 

FIRE   PAGES  265 

FINISH  266 

FOR  YOU  267 


SLABS  OF  THE  SUNBURNT  WEST 

THE  WINDY  CITY  3 

WASHINGTON    MONUMENT   BY   NIGHT  l8 

AND   SO  TO-DAY  2O 

BLACK  HORIZONS  28 

SEA  SLANT  29 

UPSTREAM  30 

FOUR  STEICHEN  PRINTS  3! 

FINS  32 

BEAT,   OLD   HEART  33 

MOON   RIDERS  34 

AT  THE  GATES  OF  TOMBS  37 

HAZARDOUS  OCCUPATIONS  39 

PROPS  40 

GYPSY  MOTHER  4! 

GOLD  MUD  43 

CROSSING   THE  PACES  45 

COUPLES  46 

CALIGARI  47 

FEATHER  LIGHTS  48 

PEARL   HORIZONS  49 

HOOF  DUSK  5O 

HARSK,   HARSK  5! 

BRANCUSI  53 

AMBASSADORS  OF  GRIEF  55 

WITHOUT  THE   CANE   AND  THE   DERBY  56 

THE  RAKEOFF  AND  THE  GETAWAY  60 

TWO  HUMPTIES  62 

IMPROVED  FARM   LAND  63 

HELL  ON  THE   WABASH  64 

THIS FOR  THE  MOON YES?  65 

PRIMER  LESSON  66 

SLABS  OF  THE  SUNBURNT  WEST  67 


SMOKE    AND    STEEL 

SMOKE     NIGHTS 


TO 

C3L.  EDWARD  J.  STEICHEN 

PAINTER  OF  NOCTURNES  AND  FACES,  CAMERA  ENGRAVER 

OF     GLINTS    AND     MOMENTS,     LISTENER     TO     BLUE 

EVENING     WINDS    AND     NEW    YELLOW     ROSES, 

DREAMER  AND  FINDER,  RIDER   OF  GREAT 

MORNINGS     IN     GARDENS,     VALLEYS, 

BATTLES. 


SM«KE  AN»  STEEL 

SMOKE  of  the  fields  in  spring  is  one, 

Smoke  of  the  leaves  in  autumn  another. 

Smoke  of  a  steel-mill  roof  or  a  battleship  funnel, 

They  all  go  up  in  a  line  with  a  smokestack, 

0r  they  twist  ...  in  the  slow  twist  ...  of  the  wind. 

If  the  north  wind  comes  they  run  to  the  south. 
If  the  west  wind  comes  they  run  to  the  east. 

By  this  sign 

all  smokes 

know  each  other. 

Smoke  of  the  fields  in  spring  and  leaves  in  autumn, 
Smoke  of  the  finished  steel,  chilled  and  blue, 
By  the  oath  of  work  they  swear :  "  I  know  you." 

Hunted  and  hissed  from  the  center 
Deep  down  long  ago  when  God  made  us  over, 
Deep  down  are  the  cinders  we  came  from — 
You  and  I  and  our  heads  of  smoke. 


Some  of  the  smokes  God  dropped  on  the  job 
Cross  on  the  sky  and  count  our  years 
And  sing  in  the  secrets  of  our  numbers ; 
Sing  their  dawns  and  sing  their  evenings, 
Sing  an  old  log-fire  song: 
3 


4  Smoke  and  Steel 

You  may  put  the  damper  up, 

You  may  put  the  damper  down, 

The  smoke  goes  up  the  chimney  just  the  same. 

Smoke  of  a  city  sunset  skyline, 
Smoke  of  a  country  dusk  horizon — 

They  cross  on  the  sky  and  count  our  years. 


Smoke  of  a  brick-red  dust  f 

Winds  on  a  spiral 

Out  of  the  stacks 

For  a  hidden  and  glimpsing  moon. 
This,  said  the  bar-iron  shed  to  the  blooming  mill, 
This  is  the  slang  of  coal  and  steel. 
The  day-gang  hands  it  to  the  night-gang, 
The  night-gang  hands  it  back. 

Stammer  at  the  slang  of  this — 
Let  us  understand  half  of  it. 

In  the  rolling  mills  and  sheet  mills, 

In  the  harr  and  boom  of  the  blast  fires, 

The  smoke  changes  its  shadow 

And  men  change  their  shadow ; 

A  nigger,  a  wop,  a  bohunk  changes. 

A  bar  of  steel — it  is  only 

Smoke  at  the  heart  of  it,  smoke  and  the  blood  of  a  man. 
A  runner  of  fire  ran  in  it,  ran  out,  ran  somewhere  else, 
And  left — smoke  and  the  blood  of  a  man 
And  the  finished  steel,  chilled  and  blue. 


Smike  and  Steel  5 

So  fire  runs  in,  runs  out,  runs  somewhere  else  again, 
And  the  bar  of  steel  is  a  gun,  a  wheel,  a  nail,  a  shovel, 
A  rudder  under  the  sea,  a  steering-gear  in  the  sky ; 
And  always  dark  in  the  heart  and  through  it, 

Smoke  and  the  blood  of  a  man. 

Pittsburg,  Youngstown,  Gary — they  make  their  steel 
with  men. 


In  the  blood  of  men  and  the  ink  of  chimneys 

The  smoke  nights  write  their  oaths : 

Smoke  into  steel  and  blood  into  steel ; 

Homestead,  Braddock,  Birmingham,  they  make  their 

steel  with  men. 
Smoke  and  blood  is  the  mix  of  steel. 

The  birdmen  drone 

in  the  blue ;  it  is  steel 

a  motor  sings  and  zooms. 


Steel  barb-wire  around  The  Works. 

Steel  guns  in  the  holsters  of  the  guards  at  the  gates  of 
The  Works. 

Steel  ore-boats  bring  the  loads  clawed  from  the  earth 
by  steel,  lifted  and  lugged  by  arms  of  steel,  sung 
on  its  way  by  the  clanking  clam-shells. 

The  runners  now,  the  handlers  now,  are  steel ;  they  dig 
and  clutch  and  haul;  they  hoist  their  automatic 
knuckles  from  job  to  job;  they  are  steel  making 
steel. 


6  Smoke  and  Steel 

Fire  and  dust  and  air  fight  in  the  furnaces ;  the  pour  is 
timed,  the  billets  wriggle ;  the  clinkers  are  dumped : 

Liners  on  the  sea,  skyscrapers  on  the  land ;  diving  steel 
in  the  sea,  climbing  steel  in  the  sky. 


Finders  in  the  dark,  you  Steve  with  a  dinner  bucket, 
you  Steve  clumping  in  the  dusk  on  the  sidewalks 
with  an  evening  paper  for  the  woman  and  kids, 
you  Steve  with  your  head  wondering  where  we 
all  end  up — 

Finders  in  the  dark,  Steve :  I  hook  my  arm  in  cinder 
sleeves ;  we  go  down  the  street  together ;  it  is  all 
the  same  to  us ;  you  Steve  and  the  rest  of  us  end 
on  the  same  stars;  we  all  wear  a  hat  in  hell 
together,  in  hell  or  heaven. 

* 

Smoke  nights  now,  Steve. 
Smoke,  smoke,  lost  in  the  sieves  of  yesterday ; 
Dumped  again  to  the  scoops  and  hooks  today. 
Smoke  like  the  clocks  and  whistles,  always. 
Smoke  nights  now. 
To-morrow  something  else. 


Luck  moons  come  and  go : 

Five  men  swim  in  a  pot  of  red  steel. 

Their  bones  are  kneaded  into  the  bread  of  steel : 

Their  bones  are  knocked  into  coils  and  anvils 

And  the  sucking  plungers  of  sea-fighting  turbines. 

Look  for  them  in  the  woven  frame  of  a  wireless  statioa 


Smoke  and  Steel  7 

So   ghosts   hide   in   steel   like   heavy-armed   men   in 

mirrors. 
Peepers,    skulkers — they    shadow-dance    in    laughing 

tombs. 
They  are  always  there  and  they  never  answer. 

One  of  them  said :  "  I  like  my  job,  the  company  is 

good  to  me,  America  is  a  wonderful  country." 
One :  "  Jesus,  my  bones  ache ;  the  company  is  a  liar ; 

this  is  a  free  country,  like  hell." 
One :  "  I  got  a  girl,  a  peach ;  we  save  up  and  go  on  a 

farm  and  raise  pigs  and  be  the  boss  ourselves." 
And  the  others  were  roughneck  singers  a  long  ways 

from  home. 
Look  for  them  back  of  a  steel  vault  door. 

They  laugh  at  the  cost. 

They  lift  the  birdmen  into  the  blue. 

It  is  steel  a  motor  sings  and  zooms. 

In  the  subway  plugs  and  drums, 
In  the  slow  hydraulic  drills,  in  gumbo  or  gravel, 
Under  dynamo  shafts  in  the  webs  of  armature  spiders. 
They  shadow-dance  and  laugh  at  the  cost. 


The  ovens  light  a  red  dome. 

Spools  of  fire  wind  and  wind. 

Quadrangles  of  crimson  sputter. 

The  lashes  of  dying  maroon  let  down. 

Fire  and  wind  wash  out  the  slag. 

Forevet*  the  slag  gets  washed  in  fire  and  wind. 


8  Smoke  and  Steel 

The  anthem  learned  by  the  steel  is: 

Do  this  or  go  hungry. 
Look  for  our  rust  on  a  plow. 
Listen  to  us  in  a  threshing-engine  razz. 
Look  at  our  job  in  the  running  wagon  wheat. 


Fire  and  wind  wash  at  the  slag. 

Box-cars,  clocks,  steam-shovels,  churns,  pistons,  boilers, 
scissors — 

Oh,  the  sleeping  slag  from  the  mountains,  the  slag- 
heavy  pig-iron  will  go  down  many  roads. 

Men  will  stab  and  shoot  with  it,  and  make  butter  and 
tunnel  rivers,  and  mow  hay  in  swaths,  and  slit 
hogs  and  skin  beeves,  and  steer  airplanes  across 
North  America,  Europe,  Asia,  round  the  world. 

Hacked  from  a  hard  rock  country,  broken  and  baked 
in  mills  and  smelters,  the  rusty  dust  waits 

Till  the  clean  hard  weave  of  its  atoms  cripples  and 
blunts  the  drills  chewing  a  hole  in  it. 

The  steel  of  its  plinths  and  flanges  is  reckoned,  O  God. 
in  one-millionth  of  an  inch. 


Once  when  I  saw  the  curves  of  fire,  the  rough  scarf 

women  dancing, 
Dancing  out  of  the  flues  and  smoke-stacks — flying  hair 

of  fire,  flying  feet  upside  down ; 
Buckets  and  baskets  of  fire  exploding  and  chortling, 

fire  running  wild  out  of  the  steady  and  fastened 

ovens ; 


Smoke  and  Steel  9 

Sparks  cracking  a  harr-harr-huff  from  a  solar-plexus 
of  rock-ribs  of  the  earth  taking  a  laugh  for  them- 
selves ; 

Ears  and  noses  of  fire,  gibbering  gorilla  arms  of  fire, 
gold  mud-pies,  gold  bird-wings,  red  jackets  riding 
purple  mules,  scarlet  autocrats  tumbling  from  the 
humps  of  camels,  assassinated  czars  straddling 
vermillion  balloons ; 

I  saw  then  the  fires  flash  one  by  one :  good-by :  then 
smoke,  smoke ; 

And  in  the  screens  the  great  sisters  of  night  and  cool 
stars,  sitting  women  arranging  their  hair, 

Waiting  in  the  sky,  waiting  with  slow  easy  eyes,  wait- 
ing and  half-murmuring : 
"  Since  you  know  all 
and  I  know  nothing, 
tell  me  what  I  dreamed  last  night." 


Pearl  cobwebs  in  the  windy  rain, 

in  only  a  flicker  of  wind, 

are  caught  and  lost  and  never  known  again. 

A  pool  of  moonshine  comes  and  waits, 
but  never  waits  long:  the  wind  picks  up 
loose  gold  like  this  and  is  gone. 

A  bar  of  steel  sleeps  and  looks  slant-eyed-^ 
on  the  pearl  cobwebs,  the  pools  of  moonshine; 
sleeps  slant-eyed  a  million  years, 


IO  Smoke  and  Steel 

sleeps  with  a  coat  of  rust,  a  vest  of  moths, 
a  shirt  of  gathering  sod  and  loam. 

The  wind  never  bothers  ...  a  bar  of  steel. 
The  wind  picks  only    .    .    pearl  cobwebs    .,  _.    pools 
of  moonshine. 


Smoke  and  Steel  II 


FIVE  TOWNS  ON  THE  B.  AND  O.   -^~ 

BY  day  .  .  .  tireless  smokestacks  .  .   .  hungry  smoky 
shanties  hanging  to  the  slopes  .   .   .  crooning: 
,  that's  all 


By  night  ...  all  lit  up  ...  fire-gold  bars,  fire-gold 
flues  .  .  .  and  the  shanties  shaking  in  clumsy 
shadows  .  .  .  almost  the  hills  shaking  ...  all 
crooning:  By  God,  we're  going  to  find  out  or 
know  why. 


12  Smoke  and  Steel 


WORK  GANGS 

Box  cars  run  by  a  mile  long. 

And  I  wonder  what  they  say  to  each  other 

When  they  stop  a  mile  long  on  a  sidetrack. 

Maybe  their  chatter  goes  : 
I  came  from  Fargo  with  a  load  of  wheat  up  to  the 

danger  line. 
I  came  from  Omaha  with  a  load  of  shorthorns  and 

they  splintered  my  boards. 

I  came  from  Detroit  heavy  with  a  load  of  flivvers. 
\  carried  apples  from  the  Hood  river  last  year  and  this 

year  bunches  of  bananas  from  Florida  ;  they  look 

for  me  with  watermelons  from  Mississippi  next 

year. 

Hammers  and  shovels  of  work  gangs  sleep  in  shop 


<  p/ 

corners 


when  the  dark  stars  come  on  the  sky  and  the  night 
watchmen  walk  and  look. 


Then  the  hammer  heads  talk  to  the  handles, 

then  the  scoops  of  the  shovels  talk, 

how  the  day's  work  nicked  and  trimmed  them, 

how  they  swung  and  lifted  all  day, 

how  the  hands  of  the  work  gangs  smelled  of  hope. 


Work  Gangs  13 

In  the  night  of  the  dark  stars 

when  the  curve  of  the  sky  is  a  work  gang  handle, 

in  the  night  on  the  mile  long  sidetracks, 

in  the  night  where  the  hammers  and  shovels  sleep  in 

corners, 

the  night  watchmen  stuff  their  pipes  with  dreams — 
and  sometimes  they  doze  and  don't  care  for  nothin', 
and  sometimes  they  search  their  heads  for  meanings, 
stories,  stars. 

The  stuff  of  it  runs  like  this : 
A  long  way  we  come ;  a  long  way  to  go ;  long  rests  and 

long  deep  sniffs  for  our  lungs  on  the  way. 
Sleep  is  a  belonging  of  all ;  even  if  all  songs  are  old 
songs  and  the  singing  heart  is  snuffed  out  like  a 
switchman's  lantern  with  the  oil  gone,  even  if  we 
forget  our  names  and  houses  in  the  finish,  the 
secret  of  sleep  is  left  us,  sleep  belongs  to  all, 
sleep  is  the  first  and  last  and  best  of  all.  \ 

People  singing;  people  with  song  mouths  connecting 
with  song  hearts ;  people  who  must  sing 
people  whose  song  hearts  break  if  there 
song  mouth ;  these  are  my  people. 


14  Smoke  and  Steel 


PENNSYLVANIA 

I  HAVE  been  in  Pennsylvania, 

In  the  Monongahela  and  the  Hocking  Valleys. 

In  the  blue  Susquehanna 

On  a  Saturday  morning 

I  saw  the  mounted  constabulary  go  by, 

I  saw  boys  playing  marbles. 

Spring  and  the  hills  laughed. 

And  in  places 

Along  the  Appalachian  chain, 
I  saw  steel  arms  handling  coal  and  iron, 
And  I  saw  the  white-cauliflower  faces 
Of  miners'  wives  waiting  for  the  men  to  come  home 
from  the  day's  work. 

I  made  color  studies  in  crimson  and  violet 
Over  the  dust  and  domes  of  culm  at  sunset. 


Smoke  and  Steel  15 

WHIRLS 

NEITHER  rose  leaves  gathered  in  a  jar — respectably  in 
Boston — these — nor  drops  of  Christ  blood  for  a 
chalice — decently  in  Philadelphia  or  Baltimore. 

Cinders — these — hissing  in  a  marl  and  lime  of  Chicago 
— also  these — the  howling  of  northwest  winds 
across  North  and  South  Dakota — or  the  spatter 
of  winter  spray  on  sea  rocks  of  Kamchatka. 


PEOPLE  WHO  MUST 


Smoke  and  Steel  19 


\  PEOPLE  WHO  MUST    ( 

^^ 

I  PAINTED  on  the  roof  of  a  skyscraper. 

I  painted  a  long  while  and  called  it  a  day's  work. 

The  people  on  a  corner  swarmed  and  the  traffic  cop's 

whistle  never  let  up  all  afternoon. 
They  were  the  same  as  bugs,  many  bugs  on  their  way — 
Those  people  on  the  go  or  at  a  standstill ; 
And  the  traffic  cop  a  spot  of  blue,  a  splinter  of  brass, 
Where  the  black  tides  ran  around  him 
And  he  kept  the  street.    I  painted  a  long  while 
And  called  it  a  day's  work. 


2O  Smoke  and  Steel 


ALLEY  RATS 

THEY  were  calling  certain  styles  of  whiskers  by  the 

name  of  "  lilacs." 
And  another  manner  of  beard  assumed  in  their  chatter 

a  verbal  guise 
Of  "  mutton  chops,"  "  galways,"  "  feather  dusters." 

Metaphors  such  as  these  sprang  from  their  lips  while 
other  street  cries 

Sprang  from  sparrows  finding  scattered  oats  among 
interstices  of  the  curb. 

Ah-hah  these  metaphors — and  Ah-hah  these  boys — 
among  the  police  they  were  known 

As  the  Dirty  Dozen  and  their  names  took  the  front 
pages  of  newspapers 

And  two  of  them  croaked  on  the  same  day  at  a  "  neck- 
tie party  "  .  .  .  if  we  employ  the  metaphors  of 
their  lips. 


Smoke  and  Steel  21 


ELEVENTH  AVENUE  RACKET 

THERE  is  something  terrible 

about  a  hurdy-gurdy, 

a  gipsy  man  and  woman, 

and  a  monkey  in  red  flannel 

all  stopping  in  front  of  a  big  house 

with  a  sign  "  For  Rent "  on  the  door 

and  the  blinds  hanging  loose 

and  nobody  home. 

I  never  saw  this. 

I  hope  to  God  I  never  will. 

Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo. 
Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum. 
Nobody  home?    Everybody  home. 

Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo. 

Mamie  Riley  married  Jimmy  Higgins  last  night :  Eddie 
Jones  died  of  whooping  cough :  George  Hacks  got 
a  job  on  the  police  force :  the  flosenheims  bought 
a  brass  bed :  Lena  Hart  giggled  at  a  Jackie :  a 
pushcart  man  called  towwrytoes,  tomaytoes. 
Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo. 
Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum. 

Nobody  home  ?    Everybody  home. 


22  Smoke  and  Steel 


HOME  FIRES 

IN  a  Yiddish  eating  place  on  Rivington  Street  .  .  . 
faces  .  .  .  coffee  spots  .  .  .  children  kicking  at 
the  night  stars  with  bare  toes  from  bare  buttocks. 

They  know  it  is  September  on  Rivington  when  the  red 
tomaytoes  cram  the  pushcarts, 

Here  the  children  snozzle  at  milk  bottles,  children  who 
have  never  seen  a  cow. 

Here  the  stranger  wonders  how  so  many  people  re- 
member where  they  keep  home  fires. 


Smoke  and  Steel  23 


HATS 

HATS,  where  do  you  belong? 
what  is  under  you? 

On  the  rim  of  a  skyscraper's  forehead 

I  looked  down  and  saw :  hats :  fifty  thousand  hats : 

Swarming  with  a  noise  of  bees  and  sheep,  cattle  and 

waterfalls, 
Stopping  with  a  silence  of   sea  grass,  a  silence  of 

prairie  corn. 

Hats:  tell  me  your  high  hopes. 


24  Smoke  and  Steel 


THEY  ALL  WANT  TO  PLAY  HAMLET 

THEY  all  want  to  play  Hamlet. 

They  have  not  exactly  seen  their  fathers  killed 

Nor  their  mothers  in  a  frame-up  to  kill, 

Nor  an  Ophelia  dying  with  a  dust  gagging  the  heart, 

Not  exactly  the  spinning  circles  of   singing   golden 

spiders, 

Not  exactly  this  have  they  got  at  nor  the  meaning  of 
flowers — O  flowers,  flowers  slung  by  a  dancing 
girl — in  the  saddest  play  the  inkfish,  Shakespeare, 
ever  wrote ; 

Yet  they  all  want  to  play  Hamlet  because  it  is  sad 
like  all  actors  are  sad  and  to  stand  by  an  open 
grave  with  a  joker's  skull  in  the  hand  and  then 
to  say  over  slow  and  say  over  slow  wise,  keen, 
beautiful  words  masking  a  heart  that's  breaking, 
breaking, 

This  is  something  that  calls  and  calls  to  their  blood. 
They  are  acting  when  they  talk  about  it  and  they  know 
it  is  acting  to  be  particular  about  it  and  yet :  They 
all  want  to  play  Hamlet. 


Smoke  and  Steel  2$ 


THE  MAYOR  OF  GARY   ^ 

I  ASKED  the  Mayor  of  Gary  about  the  12-hour  day 
and  the  7-day  week. 

And  the  Mayor  of  Gary  answered  more  workmen  steal    \ 
time  on  the  job  in  Gary  than  any  other  place  in 
the  United  States. 

"Go  into  the  plants  and  you  will  see  men  sitting 
around  doing  nothing — machinery  does  every- 
thing," said  the  Mayor  of  Gary  when  I  asked 

\^    him  about  the  12-hour  day  and  the  7-day  week. 

And  he  wore  cool  cream  pants,  the  Mayor  of  Gary, 
and  white  shoes,  and  a  barber  had  fixed  him  up 
with  a  shampoo  and  a  shave  and  he  was  easy 
and  imperturbable  though  the  government  weather 
bureau  thermometer  said  96  and  children  were 
soaking  their  heads  at  bubbling  fountains  on  the 
street  corners. 

And  I  said  good-by  to  the  Mayor  of  Gary  and  I  went 
out  from  the  city  hall  and  turned  the  corner  into 
Broadway. 

And  I  saw  workmen  wearing  leather  shoes  scruffed 
with  fire  and  cinders,  and  pitted  with  little  holes 
from  running  molten  steel, 

And  some  had  bunches  of  specialized  muscles  around 
their  shoulder  blades  hard  as  pig  iron,  muscles 
of  their  fore-arms  were  sheet  steel  and  they  looked 
to  me  like  men  who  had  been  somewhere. 

Gary,  Indiana,  1915. 


26  Smoke  and  Steel 


OMAHA 

RED  barns  and  red  heifers  spot  the  green 
grass  circles  around  Omaha — the  farmers 
haul  tanks  of  cream  and  wagon  loads  of 
cheese. 

Shale  hogbacks  across  the  river  at  Council 
Bluffs — and  shanties  hang  by  an  eyelash  to 
the  hill  slants  back  around  Omaha. 

A  span  of  steel  ties  up  the  kin  of  Iowa  and 
Nebraska  across  the  yellow,  big-hoofed  Missouri 
River. 

Omaha,  the  roughneck,  feeds  armies, 

Eats  and  swears  from  a  dirty  face. 

Omaha  works  to  get  the  world  a  breakfast. 


Smoke  and  Steel  27 

GALOOTS    Y^ 

GALOOTS,  you  hairy,  hankering, 

Snousle  on  the  bones  you  eat,  chew  at  the  gristle  and 

lick  the  last  of  it. 
Grab  off  the  bones  in  the  paws  of  other  galoots — hook 

your  claws  in  their  sleazy  mouths — snap  and  run. 
If  long-necks  sit  on  their  rumps  and  sing  wild  cries 

to  the  winter  moon,  chasing  their  tails   to  the 

flickers  of  foolish  stars  ...  let  'em  howl. 
Galoots  fat  with  too  much,  galoots  lean  with  too  little, 

galoot  millions  and  millions,  snousle  and  snicker 

on,  plug  your  exhausts,  hunt  your  snacks  of  fat 

and  lean,  grab  off  yours. 


28  Smoke  and  Steel 


'-.-y 

CRABAPPLE  BLOSSOMS 

SOMEBODY'S  little  girl — how  easy  to  make  a  sob 
story  over  who  she  was  once  and  who  she  is 
now. 

Somebody's  little  girl — she  played  once  under  a  crab- 
apple  tree  in  June  and  the  blossoms  fell  on  the 
dark  hair. 

It  was  somewhere  on  the  Erie  line  and  the  town  was 
Salamanca  or  Painted  Post  or  Horse's  Head. 

And  out  of  her  hair  she  shook  the  blossoms  and  went 
into  the  house  and  her  mother  washed  her  face 
and  her  mother  had  an  ache  in  her  heart  at  a  rebel 
voice,  "  I  don't  want  to." 

Somebody's  little  girl — forty  little  girls  of  somebodies 
splashed  in  red  tights  forming  horseshoes,  arches, 
pyramids — forty  little  show  girls,  ponies,  squabs. 

How  easy  a  sob  story  over  who  she  once  was  and  who 
she  is  now — and  how  the  crabapple  blossoms  fell 
on  her  dark  hair  in  June. 

Let  the  lights  of  Broadway  spangle  and  splatter — and 
the  taxis  hustle  the  crowds  away  when  the  show 
is  over  and  the  street  goes  dark. 


Crabapple  Blossoms  29 

Let  the  girls  wash  off  the  paint  and  go  for  their  mid- 
night sandwiches — let  'em  dream  in  the  morning 
sun,  late  in  the  morning,  long  after  the  morning 
papers  and  the  milk  wagons — 

Let  'em  dream  long  as  they  want  to  .  .  .of  June 
somewhere  on  the  Erie  line  .  .  .  and  crabapple 
blossoms. 


30  Smoke  and  Steel 


REAL  ESTATE  NEWS 

ARMOUR  AVENUE  was  the  name  of  this  street  and  door 
signs  on  empty  houses  read  "  The  Silver  Dollar," 
"  Swede  Annie "  and  the  Christian  names  of 
madams  such  as  "  Myrtle  "  and  "  Jenny." 

Scrap  iron,  rags  and  bottles  fill  the  front  rooms  hither 
and  yon  and  signs  in  Yiddish  say  Abe  Kaplan  & 
Co.  are  running  junk  shops  in  whore  houses  of 
former  times. 

The  segregated  district,  the  Tenderloin,   is  here  no 
more;  the  red-lights  are  gone;  the  ring  of  shovels 
handling  scrap  iron  replaces  the  banging  of  pianos 
and  the  bawling  songs  of  pimps. 
Chicago,  1915. 


Smike  and  Steel  31 


MANUAL  SYSTEM 

ARY  has  a  thingamajig  clamped  on  her  ears' 

sits  all  day  taking  plugs  out  and  sticking  plugs  in. 
jPlashes  and  flashes — voices  and  voices 

calling  for  ears  to  pour  words  in 
Faces  at  the  ends  of  wires  asking  for  other  faces 

at  the  ends  of  other  wires : 
All  day  taking  plugs  out  and  sticking  plugs  in, 
Mary  has  a  thingamajig  clamped  on  her  ears. 


32  Smoke  and  Steel 


STRIPES 

POLICEMAN  in  front  of  a  bank  3  A.M.  .   .   .  lonely. 
Policeman  State  and  Madison  .    .    .  high  noon  .    .    . 
mobs  .  .   .  cars  .   .  .  parcels  .  .   .  lonely. 

Woman  in  suburbs  .  .  .  keeping  night  watch  on  a 
sleeping  typhoid  patient  .  .  .  only  a  clock  to  talk 
to  ...  lonesome. 

Woman  selling  gloves  .  .  .  bargain  day  department 
store  .  .  .  furious  crazy-work  of  many  hands 
slipping  in  and  out  of  gloves  .  .  .  lonesome. 


Smoke  and  Steel  33 


HONKY  TONK  IN  CLEVELAND,  OHIO 

IT'S  a  jazz  affair,  drum  crashes  and  cornet  razzes. 
The  trombone  pony  neighs  and  the  tuba  jackass  snorts. 
The  banjo  tickles  and  titters  too  awful. 
The  chippies  talk  about  the  funnies  in  the  papers. 
The  cartoonists  weep  in  their  beer. 
Ship  riveters  talk  with  their  feet 
To  the  feet  of  floozies  under  the  tables. 
A  quartet  of  white  hopes  mourn  with  interspersed 
snickers : 

"  I  got  the  blues. 
I  got  the  blues. 
I  got  the  blues." 
And  ...  as  we  said  earlier: 

The  cartoonists  weep  in  their  beer. 


34  Smoke  and  Steel 


CRAPSHOOTERS 

SOMEBODY  loses  whenever  somebody  wins. 

This  was  known  to  the  Chaldeans  long  ago. 

And  more :  somebody  wins  whenever  somebody  loses. 

This  too  was  in  the  savvy  of  the  Chaldeans. 

They  take  it  heaven's  hereafter  is  an  eternity  of  crap 
games  where  they  try  their  wrists  years  and  years 
and  no  police  come  with  a  wagon ;  the  game  goes 
on  forever. 

The  spots  on  the  dice  are  the  music  signs  of  the  songs 
of  heaven  here. 

God  is  Luck:  Luck  is  God:  we  are  all  bones  the 
High  Thrower  rolled:  some  are  two  spots,  some 
double  sixes. 

The  myths  are  Phoebe,  Little  Joe,  Big  Dick. 

Hope  runs  high  with  a :  Huh,  seven — huh,  come  seven 

This  too  was  in  the  savvy  of  the  Chaldeans. 


Smoke  and  Steel  35 


SOUP 


I  SAW  a  famous  man  eating  soup. 

I  say  he  was  lifting  a  fat  broth 

Into  his  mouth  with  a  spoon. 

His  name  was  in  the  newspapers  that  day 

Spelled  out  in  tall  black  headlines 

And  thousands  of  people  were  talking  about  him. 

When  I  saw  him, 

He  sat  bending  his  head  over  a  plate 
Putting  soup  in  his  mouth  with  a  spoon. 


36  Smoke  and  Steel 


CLINTON  SOUTH  OF  POLK 

I  WANDER  down  on  Clinton  street  south  of  Polk 
And  listen  to  the  voices  of  Italian  children  quarreling. 
It  is  a  cataract  of  coloratura 

And  I  could  sleep  to  their  musical  threats  and  accusa- 
tions. 


Smoke  and  Steel  37 


BLUE  ISLAND  INTERSECTION 

Six  street  ends  come  together  here. 

They  feed  people  and  wagons  into  the  center. 

In  and  out  all  day  horses  with  thoughts  of  nose-bags, 

Men   with   shovels,   women   with   baskets   and   baby 

buggies. 

Six  ends  of  streets  and  no  sleep  for  them  all  day. 
The  people  and  wagons  come  and  go,  out  and  in. 
Triangles  of  banks  and  drug  stores  watch. 
The  policemen  whistle,  the  trolley  cars  bump : 
Wheels,  wheels,  feet,  feet,  all  day. 

In  the  false  dawn  when  the  chickens  blink 
And  the  east  shakes  a  lazy  baby  toe  at  to-morrow, 
And  the  east  fixes  a  pink  half-eye  this  way, 
In  the  time  when  only  one  milk  wagon  crosses 
These  three  streets,  these  six  street  ends, 
It  is  the  sleep  time  and  they  rest. 
The  triangle  banks  and  drug  stores  rest. 
The  policeman  is  gone,  his  star  and  gun  sleep. 
The  owl  car  blutters  along  in  a  sleep-walk. 


372115 


38  Smoke  and  Steel 


RED-HEADED  RESTAURANT  CASHIER 

SHAKE  back  your  hair,  O  red-headed  girl. 

Let  go  your  laughter  and  keep  your  two  proud  freckles 

on  your  chin. 
Somewhere  is  a  man  looking  for  a  red-headed  girl  and 

some  day  maybe  he  will  look  into  your  eyes  for  a 

restaurant  cashier  and  find  a  lover,  maybe. 
Around  and  around  go  ten  thousand  men  hunting  a 

red  headed  girl  with  two  freckles  on  her  chin. 
I  have  seen  them  hunting,  hunting. 

Shake  back  your  hair;  let  go  your  laughter. 


Smoke  and  Steel    ^$^          ?o 

«J  x 


BOY  AND  FATHER 

• 
THE  boy  Alexander  understands  his  father  to  be  a 

famous  lawyer. 
/      The  leather  law  books  of  Alexander's  father  fill  a 

room  like  hay  in  a  barn. 

\     Alexander  has  asked  his  father  to  let  him  build  a  house 
\  like  bricklayers  build,   a  house  with  walls  and 

\         roofs  made  of  big  leather  law  books. 

The  rain  beats  on  the  windows 

And  the  raindrops  run  down  the  window  glass 

And  the  raindrops  slide  off  the  green  blinds 

down  the  siding. 

The  boy  Alexander  dreams  of  Napoleon  in  John  C. 
Abbott's  history,  Napoleon  the  grand  and  lonely 
man  wronged,  Napoleon  in  his  life  wronged  and 
in  his  memory  wronged. 

The  boy  Alexander  dreams  of  the  cat  Alice  saw,  the 
cat  fading  off  into  the  dark  and  leaving  the  teeth 
of  its  Cheshire  smile  lighting  the  gloom. 

Buffaloes,  blizzards,  way  down  in  Texas,  in  the  pan- 
handle of  Texas  snuggling  close  to  New  Mexico, 

These  creep  into  Alexander's  dreaming  by  the  window 
when  his  father  talks  with  strange  men  about 
land  down  in  Deaf  Smith  County. 


4O  Boy  and  Father 

Alexander's  father  tells  the  strange  men :  Five  years 
ago  we  ran  a  Ford  out  on  the  prairie  and  chased 
antelopes. 

Only  once  or  twice  in  a  long  while  has  Alexander  heard 
his  father  say  "  my  first  wife "  so-and-so  and 
such-and-such. 

A  few  times  softly  the  father  has  told  Alexander, 
"  Your  mother  .  .  .  was  a  beautiful  woman  .  .  . 
but  we  won't  talk  about  her." 

Always  Alexander  listens  with  a  keen  listen  when  he 
hears  his  father  mention  "  my  first  wife  "  or  "  Al- 
exander's mother." 

Alexander's  father  smokes  a  cigar  and  the  Episcopal 
rector  smokes  a  cigar  and  the  words  come  often : 
mystery  of  life,  mystery  of  life. 

These  two  come  into  Alexander's  head  blurry  and  gray 
while  the  rain  beats  on  the  windows  and  the  rain- 
drops run  down  the  window  glass  and  the  rain- 
drops slide  off  the  green  blinds  and  down  the 
siding. 

These  and :  There  is  a  God,  there  must  be  a  God,  how 
can  there  be  rain  or  sun  unless  there  is  a  God  ? 

So  from  the  wrongs  of  Napoleon  and  the  Cheshire  cat 
smile  on  to  the  buffaloes  and  blizzards  of  Texas 
and  on  to  his  mother  and  to  God,  so  the  blurry 
gray  rain  dreams  of  Alexander  have  gone  on  five 
minutes,  maybe  ten,  keeping  slow  easy  time  to  the 
raindrops  on  the  window  glass  and  the  raindrops 
sliding  off  the  green  blinds  and  down  the  siding. 


Smoke  and  Steel  41 


CLEAN  CURTAINS 

NEW  neighbors  came  to  the  corner  house  at  Congress 
and  Green  streets. 

The  look  of  their  clean  white  curtains  was  the  same 
as  the  rim  of  a  nun's  bonnet. 

One  way  was  an  oyster  pail  factory,  one  way  they 
made  candy,  one  way  paper  boxes,  strawboard 
cartons. 

The  warehouse  trucks  shook  the  dust  of  the  ways 
loose  and  the  wheels  whirled  dust — there  was 
dust  of  hoof  and  wagon  wheel  and  rubber  tire — 
dust  of  police  and  fire  wagons — dust  of  the  winds 
that  circled  at  midnights  and  noon  listening  to  no 
prayers. 

"  O  mother,  I  know  the  heart  of  you,"  I  sang  passing 
the  rim  of  a  nun's  bonnet — O  white  curtains — and 
people  clean  as  the  prayers  of  Jesus  here  in  the 
faded  ramshackle  at  Congress  and  Green. 

Dust  and  the  thundering  trucks  won — the  barrages  of 
the  street  wheels  and  the  lawless  wind  took  their 
way — was  it  five  weeks  or  six  the  little  mother, 
the  new  neighbors,  battled  and  then  took  away 
the  white  prayers  in  the  windows  ? 


42  Smoke  and  Steel 


CRIMSON  CHANGES  PEOPLE 

DID  I  see  a  crucifix  in  your  eyes 
and  nails  and  Roman  soldiers 
and  a  dusk  Golgotha? 

Did  I  see  Mary,  the  changed  woman, 

washing  the  feet  of  all  men, 

clean  as  new  grass 

when  the  old  grass  burns? 

Did  I  see  moths  in  your  eyes,  lost  moths, 
with  a  flutter  of  wings  that  meant : 
we  can  never  come  again. 

Did  I  see  No  Man's  Land  in  your  eyes 
and  men  with  lost  faces,  lost  loves, 
and  you  among  the  stubs  crying? 

Did  I  see  you  in  the  red  death  jazz  of  war 
losing  moths  among  lost  faces, 
speaking  to  the  stubs  who  asked  you 
to  speak  of  songs  and  God  and  dancing, 
of  bananas,  northern  lights  or  Jesus, 
any  hummingbird  of  thought  whatever 
flying  away  from  the  red  death  jazz  of  war? 


Crimson  Changes  People  43 

Did  I  see  your  hand  make  a  useless  gesture 
trying  to  say  with  a  code  of  five  fingers 
something  the  tongue  only  stutters? 
did  I  see  a  dusk  Golgotha? 


44  Smoke  and  Steel 


NEIGHBORS 

ON  Forty  First  Street 
near  Eighth  Avenue 
a  frame  house  wobbles. 

If  houses  went  on  crutches 
this  house  would  be 
one  of  the  cripples. 

A  sign  on  the  house: 

Church  of  the  Living  God 

And  Rescue  Home  for  Orphan  Children. 

From  a  Greek  coffee  house 

Across  the  street 

A  cabalistic  jargon 

Jabbers  back. 

And  men  at  tables 

Spill  Peloponnesian  syllables 

And  speak  of  shovels  for  street  work. 

And  the  new  embankments  of  the  Erie  Railroad 

At  Painted  Post,  Horse's  Head,  Salamanca. 


Smoke  and  Steel  45 


CAHOOTS 

PLAY  it  across  the  table. 

What  if  we  steal  this  city  blind? 

If  they  want  any  thing  let  'em  nail  it  down. 

Harness  bulls,  dicks,  front  office  men, 
And  the  high  goats  up  on  the  bench, 
Ain't  they  all  in  cahoots  ? 
Ain't  it  fifty-fifty  all  down  the  line, 
Petemen,  dips,  boosters,  stick-ups  and  guns — 
what's  to  hinder? 

Go  fifty-fifty. 

If  they  nail  you  call  in  a  mouthpiece. 
Fix  it,  you  gazump,  you  slant-head,  fix  it. 

Feed  'em.  .  .  . 

Nothin'  ever  sticks  to  my  fingers,  nah,  nah, 

nothin'  like  that, 
But  there  ain't  no  law  we  got  to  wear  mittens — 

huh — is  there? 

Mittens,  that's  a  good  one — mittens! 
There  oughta  be  a  law  everybody  wear  mittens. 


46  Smoke  and  Steel 


BLUE  MAROONS 

"  You  slut,"  he  flung  at  her. 
It  was  more  than  a  hundred  times 
He  had  thrown  it  into  her  face 
And  by  this  time  it  meant  nothing  to  her. 
She  said  to  herself  upstairs  sweeping, 
"  Clocks  are  to  tell  time  with,  pitchers 
Hold  milk,  spoons  dip  out  gravy,  and  a 
Coffee  pot  keeps  the  respect  of  those 
Who  drink  coffee — I  am  a  woman  whose 
Husband  gives  her  a  kiss  once  for  ten 
Times  he  throws  it  in  my  face,  '  You  slut.' 
If  I  go  to  a  small  town  and  him  along 
Or  if  I  go  to  a  big  city  and  him  along, 
What  of  it?    Am  I  better  off  ?"     She  swept 
The  upstairs  and  came  downstairs  to  fix 
Dinner  for  the  family. 


Smoke  and  Steel  47 


THE  HANGMAN  AT  HOME 

WHAT  does  the  hangman  think  about 
When  he  goes  home  at  night  from  work  ? 
When  he  sits  down  with  his  wife  and 
Children  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
Plate  of  ham  and  eggs,  do  they  ask 
Him  if  it  was  a  good  day's  work 
And  everything  went  well  or  do  they 
Stay  off  some  topics  and  talk  about 
The  weather,  base  ball,  politics 
And  the  comic  strips  in  the  papers 
And  the  movies?    Do  they  look  at  his 
Hands  when  he  reaches  for  the  coffee 
Or  the  ham  and  eggs?    If  the  little 
Ones  say,  Daddy,  play  horse,  here's 
A  rope — does  he  answer  like  a  joke: 
I  seen  enough  rope  for  today? 
Or  does  his  face  light  up  like  a 
Bonfire  of  joy  and  does  he  say: 
It's  a  good  and  dandy  world  we  live 
In.    And  if  a  white  face  moon  looks 
In  through  a  window  where  a  baby  girl 
Sleeps  and  the  moon  gleams  mix  with 
Baby  ears  and  baby  hair — the  hangman — 
How  does  he  act  then?    It  must  be  easy 
For  him.    Anything  is  easy  for  a  hangman, 
I  guess. 


48  Smoke  and  Steel 


MAN,  THE  MAN-HUNTER 

I  SAW  Man,  the  man-hunter, 
Hunting  with  a  torch  in  one  hand 
And  a  kerosene  can  in  the  other, 
Hunting  with  guns,  ropes,  shackles. 

I  listened 

And  the  high  cry  rang, 
The  high  cry  of  Man,  the  man-hunter : 
We'll  get  you  yet,       you       sbxyzch! 

I  listened  later. 
The  high  cry  rang: 
Kill  him !       kill  him  !       the  sbxyzch ! 

In  the  morning  the  sun  saw 

Two  butts  of  something,  a  smoking  rump. 

And  a  warning  in  charred  wood : 

Well,  we  got  him, 
the  sbxyzch. 


Smoke  and  Steel  49 


THE  SINS  OF  KALAMAZOO 

THE  sins  of  Kalamazoo  are  neither  scarlet  nor  crimson. 
The  sins  of  Kalamazoo  are  a  convict  gray,  a  dishwater 

drab. 
And  the  people  who  sin  the  sins  of  Kalamazoo  are 

neither  scarlet  nor  crimson. 
They  run  to  drabs  and  grays — and  some  of  them  sing 

they    shall    be    washed    whiter   than    snow — and 

some:  We  should  worry. 

Yes,  Kalamazoo  is  a  spot  on  the  map 

And  the  passenger  trains  stop  there 

And  the  factory  smokestacks  smoke 

And  the  grocery  stores  are  open  Saturday  nights 

And  the  streets  are  free  for  citizens  who  vote 

And  inhabitants  counted  in  the  census. 

Saturday  night  is  the  big  night. 

Listen  with  your  ears  on  a  Saturday  night  in 
Kalamazoo 

And  say  to  yourself :  I  hear  America,  I  hear, 
what  do  I  hear? 

Main  street  there  runs  through  the  middle  of  the  town 

And  there  is  a  dirty  postoffice 

And  a  dirty  city  hall 

And  a  dirty  railroad  station 


50  The  Sins  of  Kalamazoo 

And  the  United  States  flag  cries,  cries  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  to  the  four  winds  on  Lincoln's  birthday 
and  the  Fourth  of  July. 

Kalamazoo  kisses  a  hand  to  something  far  off. 

Kalamazoo  calls  to  a  long  horizon,  to  a  shivering  silver 
angel,  to  a  creeping  mystic  what-is-it. 

"  We're  here  because  we're  here,"  is  the  song  of  Kala- 
mazoo. 

"  We  don't  know  where  we're  going  but  we're  on  our 
way,"  are  the  words. 

There  are  hound  dogs  of  bronze  on  the  public  square, 
hound  dogs  looking  far  beyond  the  public  square. 

Sweethearts  there  in  Kalamazoo 
Go  to  the  general  delivery  window  of  the  postoffice 
And  speak  their  names  and  ask  for  letters 
And  ask  again,  "  Are  you  sure  there  is  nothing  for  me  ? 
I  wish  you'd  look  again — there  must  be  a  letter  for 
me." 

And  sweethearts  go  to  the  city  hall 

And  tell  their  names  and  say,  "  We  want  a  license." 

And  they  go  to  an  installment  house  and  buy  a  bed  on 

time  and  a  clock 
And  the  children  grow  up  asking  each  other,  "  What 

can  we  do  to  kill  time  ?  " 
They  grow  up  and  go  to  the  railroad  station  and  buy 

tickets  for  Texas,  Pennsylvania,  Alaska. 
"  Kalamazoo  is  all  right,"  they  say.     "  But  I  want  to 

see  the  world." 


The  Sins  of  Kalamazoo  51 

And  when  they  have  looked  the  world  over  they  come 
back  saying  it  is  all  like  Kalamazoo. 

The  trains  come  in  from  the  east  and  hoot  for  the 

crossings, 
And  buzz  away  to  the  peach  country  and  Chicago  to 

the  west 
Or  they  come  from  the  west  and  shoot  on  to  the  Battle 

Creek  breakfast  bazaars 
And  the  speedbug  heavens  of  Detroit. 

"  I  hear  America,  I  hear,  what  do  I  hear  ?  " 
Said  a  loafer  lagging  along  on  the  sidewalks  of  Kal- 
amazoo, 
Lagging  along  and  asking  questions,  reading  signs. 

Oh  yes,  there  is  a  town  named  Kalamazoo, 
A  spot  on  the  map  where  the  trains  hesitate. 
I  saw  the  sign  of  a  five  and  ten  cent  store  there 
And  the  Standard  Oil  Company  and  the  International 

Harvester 

And  a  graveyard  and  a  ball  grounds 
And  a  short  order  counter  where  a  man  can  get  a 

stack  of  wheats 
And  a  pool  hall  where  a  rounder  leered  confidential 

like  and  said : 
"  Lookin'  for  a  quiet  game  ?  " 

The  loafer  lagged  along  and  asked, 
"  Do  you  make  guitars  here  ? 

Do  you  make  boxes  the  singing  wood  winds  ask  to 
sleep  in? 


52  The  Sins  of  Kalamazoo 

Do  you  rig  up  strings  the  singing  wood  winds  sift  over 

and  sing  low?" 
The  answer:  "We  manufacture  musical  instruments 

here." 


Here  I  saw  churches  with  steeples  like  hatpins, 
Undertaking  rooms  with  sample  coffins  in  the  show 

window 

And  signs  everywhere  satisfaction  is  guaranteed, 
Shooting  galleries  where  men  kill  imitation  pigeons, 
And  there  were  doctors  for  the  sick, 
And  lawyers  for  people  waiting  in  jail, 
And  a  dog  catcher  and  a  superintendent  of  streets, 
And  telephones,  water-works,  trolley  cars, 
And  newspapers  with  a  splatter  of  telegrams   from 

sister  cities  of  Kalamazoo  the  round  world  over. 

And  the  loafer  lagging  along  said : 

Kalamazoo,  you  ain't  in  a  class  by  yourself ; 

I  seen  you  before  in  a  lot  of  places. 

If  you  are  nuts  America  is  nuts. 

And  lagging  along  he  said  bitterly : 
Before  I  came  to  Kalamazoo  I  was  silent. 
Now  I  am  gabby,  God  help  me,  I  am  gabby. 

Kalamazoo,  both  of  us  will  do  a  fadeaway. 
I  will  be  carried  out  feet  first 
And  time  and  the  rain  will  chew  you  to  dust 
And  the  winds  blow  you  away. 

And  an  old,  old  mother  will  lay  a  green  moss  cover 
on  my  bones 


The  Sins  of  Kalamazoo  53 

And  a  green  moss  cover  on  the  stones  of  your  post- 
office  and  city  hall. 

Best  of  all 

I  have  loved  your  kiddies  playing  run-sheep-run 
And  cutting  their  initials  on  the  ball  ground  fence. 
They  knew  every  time  I  fooled  them  who  was  fooled 
and  how. 

Best  of  all 

I  have  loved  the  red  gold  smoke  of  your  sunsets ; 
I  have  loved  a  moon  with  a  ring  around  it 
Floating  over  your  public  square ; 
I  have  loved  the  white  dawn  frost  of  early  winter 

silver 
And  purple   over  your  railroad  tracks   and  lumber 

yards. 

The  wishing  heart  of  you  I  loved,  Kalamazoo. 
I  sang  bye-lo,  bye-lo  to  your  dreams. 
I  sang  bye-lo  to  your  hopes  and  songs. 
I  wished  to  God  there  were  hound  dogs  of  bronze  on 

your  public  square, 

Hound   dogs   with   bronze   paws   looking  to   a   long 
horizon  with  a  shivering  silver  angel, 
a  creeping  mystic  what-is-it. 


BROKEN-FACE  GARGOYLES 


Smoke  and  Steel  57 


BROKEN-FACE  GARGOYLES 

ALL  I  can  give  you  is  broken- face  gargoyles. 
It  is  too  early  to  sing  and  dance  at  funerals, 
Though  I  can  whisper  to  you  I  am  looking  for  an 
undertaker  humming  a  lullaby  and  throwing  his 
feet  in  a  swift  and  mystic  buck-and-wing,  now 
you  see  it  and  now  you  don't. 

Fish  to  swim  a  pool  in  your  garden  flashing  a  speckled 
silver, 

A  basket  of  wine-saps  filling  your  room  with  flame- 
dark  for  your  eyes  and  the  tang  of  valley  orchards 
for  your  nose, 

Such  a  beautiful  pail  of  fish,  such  a  beautiful  peck 
of  apples,  I  cannot  bring  you  now. 

It  is  too  early  and  I  am  not  footloose  yet. 

I  shall  come  in  the  night  when  I  come  with  a  hammer 
and  saw. 

I  shall  come  near  your  window,  where  you  look  out 
when  your  eyes  open  in  the  morning, 

And  there  I  shall  slam  together  bird-houses  and  bird- 
baths  for  wing-loose  wrens  and  hummers  to  live 
in,  birds  with  yellow  wing  tips  to  blur  and  buzz 
soft  all  summer, 


58  Broken-Face  Gargoyles 

So  I  shall  make  little  fool  homes  with  doors,  always 

open  doors  for  all  and  each  to  run  away  when 

they  want  to. 
I  shall  come  just  like  that  even  though  now  it  is  early 

and  I  am  not  yet  footloose, 
Even  though  I  am  still  looking  for  an  undertaker  with 

a  raw,  wind-bitten  face  and  a  dance  in  his  feet. 
I  make  a  date  with  you  (put  it  down)  for  six  o'clock 

in  the  evening  a  thousand  years  from  now. 

All  I  can  give  you  now  is  broken-face  gargoyles. 

All  I  can  give  you  now  is  a  double  gorilla  head  with 
two  fish  mouths  and  four  eagle  eyes  hooked  on  a 
street  wall,  spouting  water  and  looking  two  ways 
to  the  ends  of  the  street  for  the  new  people,  the 
young  strangers,  coming,  coming,  always  coming. 

It  is  early. 

I  shall  yet  be  footloose. 


Smoke  and  Steel  59 


APRONS  OF  SILENCE 

MANY  things  I  might  have  said  today. 
And  I  kept  my  mouth  shut. 
So  many  times  I  was  asked 
To  come  and  say  the  same  things 
Everybody  was  saying,  no  end 
To  the  yes-yes,  yes-yes, 
me-too,  me-too. 

The  aprons  of  silence  covered  me. 

A  wire  and  hatch  held  my  tongue. 

I  spit  nails  into  an  abyss  and  listened. 

I  shut  off  the  gabble  of  Jones,  Johnson,  Smith, 

All  whose  names  take  pages  in  the  city  directory. 

I  fixed  up  a  padded  cell  and  lugged  it  around. 

I  locked  myself  in  and  nobody  knew  it. 

Only  the  keeper  and  the  kept  in  the  hoosegow 

Knew  it — on  the  streets,  in  the  postoffice, 

On  the  cars,  into  the  railroad  station 

Where  the  caller  was  calling,  "All  a-board, 

All  a-board  for  .   .  Blaa-blaa  .    .  Blaa-blaa, 

Blaa-blaa  .  .  and  all  points  northwest  .  .  all  a-board." 

Here  I  took  along  my  own  hoosegow 

And  did  business  with  my  own  thoughts. 

Do  you  see?    It  must  be  the  aprons  of  silence. 


60  Smoke  and  Steel 


DEATH  SNIPS  PROUD  MEN 

DEATH  is  stronger  than  all  the  governments  because 
the  governments  are  men  and  men  die  and  then 
death  laughs :  Now  you  see  'em,  now  you  don't. 

Death  is  stronger  than  all  proud  men  and  so  death 
snips  proud  men  on  the  nose,  throws  a  pair  of 
dice  and  says :  Read  'em  and  weep. 

Death  sends  a  radiogram  every  day:  When  I  want 
you  I'll  drop  in — and  then  one  day  he  comes  with  a 
master-key  and  lets  himself  in  and  says:  We'll 
go  now. 

* 

Death  is  a  nurse  mother  with  big  arms :  'Twon't  hurt 
you  at  all;  it's  your  time  now;  you  just  need  a 
long  sleep,  child ;  what  have  you  had  anyhow 
better  than  sleep? 


Smoke  and  Steel  61 


GOOD  NIGHT 
MANY  ways  to  spell  good  night. 

Fireworks  at  a  pier  on  the  Fourth  of  July 

spell  it  with  red  wheels  and  yellow  spokes. 

They  fizz  in  the  air,  touch  the  water  and  quit. 

Rockets  make  a  trajectory  of  gold-and-blue 
and  then  go  out. 

Railroad  trains  at  night  spell  with  a  smokestack 
mushrooming  a  white  pillar. 

Steamboats  turn  a  curve  in  the  Mississippi  crying 
in  a  baritone  that  crosses  lowland  cottonfields 
to  a  razorback  hill. 

It  is  easy  to  spell  good  night. 

Many  ways  to  spell  good  night 


62  Smoke  and  Steel 


SHIRT 

MY  shirt  is  a  token  and  symbol, 
more  than  a  cover  for  sun  and  rain, 
my  shirt  is  a  signal, 
and  a  teller  of  souls. 

I  can  take  off  my  shirt  and  tear  it, 
and  so  make  a  ripping  razzly  noise, 
and  the  people  will  say, 
"  Look  at  him  tear  his  shirt." 

I  can  keep  my  shirt  on. 
I  can  stick  around  and  sing  like  a  little  bird 
and  look  'em  all  in  the  eye  and  never  be  fazed. 
I  can  keep  my  shirt  on. 


(moke  and  Steel  63 

JAZZ  FANTASIA 

DRUM  on  your  drums,  batter  on  your  banjoes, 
sob  on  the  long  cool  winding  saxophones. 
Go  to  it,  O  jazzmen. 

Sling  your  knuckles  on  the  bottoms  of  the  happy 
tin  pans,  let  your  trombones  ooze,  and  go  husha- 
husha-hush  with  the  slippery  sand-paper. 

Moan  like  an  autumn  wind  high  in  the  lonesome  tree- 
tops,  moan  soft  like  you  wanted  somebody  terrible, 
cry  like  a  racing  car  slipping  away  from  a  motorcycle 
cop,  bang-bang!  you  jazzmen,  bang  altogether  drums, 
traps,  banjoes,  horns,  tin  cans — make  two  people  fight 
on  the  top  of  a  stairway  and  scratch  each  other's  eyes 
in  a  clinch  tumbling  down  the  stairs. 

Can  the  rough  stuff  .  .  .  now  a  Mississippi  steamboat 
pushes  up  the  night  river  with  a  hoo-hoo-hoo-oo  .  .  . 
and  the  green  lanterns  calling  to  the  high  soft  stars 
...  a  red  moon  rides  on  the  humps  of  the  low  river 
hills  .  .  .  go  to  it,  O  jazzmen. 


64  Smoke  and  Steel 


DO  YOU  WANT  AFFIDAVITS? 

THERE'S  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 
Do  you  want  affidavits? 

There's  a  man  in  the  moon  with  money  for  you. 
Do  you  want  affidavits? 

There  are  ten  dancing  girls  in  a  sea-chamber  off  Nan- 
tucket  waiting  for  you. 

There  are  tall  candles  in  Timbuctoo  burning  penance 
for  you. 

There  are — anything  else? 

Speak  now — for  now  we  stand  amid  the  great  wishing 
windows — and  the  law  says  we  are  free  to  be 
wishing  all  this  week  at  the  windows. 

Shall  I  raise  my  right  hand  and  swear  to  you  in  the 
monotone  of  a  notary  public?  this  is  "the  truth, 
the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth." 


Smoke  and  Steel  65 


"OLD-FASHIONED  REQUITED  LOVE" 

I  HAVE  ransacked  the  encyclopedias 

And  slid  my  ringers  among  topics  and  titles 

Looking  for  you. 

And  the  answer  comes  slow. 
There  seems  to  be  no  answer. 

I  shall  ask  the  next  banana  peddler  the  who  and  the 
why  of  it. 

Or — the  iceman  with  his  iron  tongs  gripping  a  clear 
cube  in  summer  sunlight — maybe  he  will  know. 


66  Smoke  and  Steel 


PURPLE  MARTINS 

IF  we  were  such  and  so,  the  same  as  these, 
maybe  we  too  would  be  slingers  and  sliders, 
tumbling  half  over  in  the  water  mirrors, 
tumbling  half  over  at  the  horse  heads  of  the  sun, 
tumbling  our  purple  numbers. 

Twirl  on,  you  and  your  satin  blue. 

Be  water  birds,  be  air  birds. 

Be  these  purple  tumblers  you  are. 

Dip  and  get  away 
From  loops  into  slip-knots, 
Write  your  own  ciphers  and  figure  eights. 
It  is  your  wooded  island  here  in  Lincoln  park. 
Everybody  knows  this  belongs  to  you. 

Five  fat  geese 
Eat  grass  on  a  sod  bank 
And  never  count  your  slinging  ciphers, 

your  sliding  figure  eights, 

A  man  on  a  green  paint  iron  bench, 

Slouches  his  feet  and  sniffs  in  a  book, 

And  looks  at  you  and  your  loops  and  slip-knots, 

And  looks  at  you  and  your  sheaths  of  satin  blue, 

And  slouches  again  and  sniffs  in  the  book, 

And  mumbles :  It  is  an  idle  and  a  doctrinaire  exploit. 


Purple  Martins  67 

Go  on  tumbling  half  over  in  the  water  mirrors. 

Go  on  tumbling  half  over  at  the  horse  heads  of  the  sun. 

Be  water  birds,  be  air  birds. 

Be  these  purple  tumblers  you  are. 


68  Smoke  and  Steel 


BRASS  KEYS 

JOY  .  .  .  weaving  two  violet  petals  for  a  coat  lapel  .  .  . 
painting  on  a  slab  of  night  sky  a  Christ  face  .    .    . 
slipping  new  brass  keys  into  rusty  iron  locks  and 
shouldering  till  at  last  the  door  gives  and  we  are  in 
a  new  room  .   .  .  forever  and  ever  violet  petals,  slabs, 
the  Christ  face,  brass  keys  and  new  rooms. 

are  we  near  or  far?  ...  is  there  anything  else?  ... 
who  comes  back  ?  .  .  .  and  why  does  love  ask  nothing 
and  give  all?  and  why  is  love  rare  as  a  tailed  comet 
shaking  guesses  out  of  men  at  telescopes  ten  feet  long? 
why  does  the  mystery  sit  with  its  chin  on  the  lean 
forearm  of  women  in  gray  eyes  and  women  in  hazel 
eyes? 

are  any  of  these  less  proud,  less  important,  than  a 
cross-examining  lawyer?  are  any  of  these  less  perfect 
than  the  front  page  of  a  morning  newspaper? 

the  answers  are  not  computed  and  attested  in  the  back 
of  an  arithmetic  for  the  verifications  of  the  lazy 

there  is  no  authority  in  the  phone  book  for  us  to  call 
and  ask  the  why,  the  wherefore,  and  the  howbeit 
it's  ...  a  riddle  ...  by  God 


Smoke  and  Steel  69 


PICK-OFFS 

THE  telescope  picks  off  star  dust 

on  the  clean  steel  sky  and  sends  it  to  me. 

The  telephone  picks  off  my  voice  and 
sends  it  cross  country  a  thousand  miles. 

The  eyes  in  my  head  pick  off  pages  of 
Napoleon  memoirs  ...  a  rag  handler, 
a  head  of  dreams  walks  in  a  sheet  of 
mist  .   .    .  the  palace  panels  shut  in  no- 
bodies drinking  nothings  out  of  silver 
helmets  ...  in  the  end  we  all  come  to  a 
rock  island  and  the  hold  of  the  sea-walls. 


jo  Smoke  and  Steel 


MANUFACTURED  GODS 

THEY  put  up  big  wooden  gods. 

Then  they  burned  the  big  wooden  gods 

And  put  up  brass  gods  and 

Changing  their  minds  suddenly 

Knocked  down  the  brass  gods  and  put  up 

A  doughface  god  with  gold  earrings. 

The  poor  mutts,  the  pathetic  slant  heads, 

They  didn't  know  a  little  tin  god 

Is  as  good  as  anything  in  the  line  of  gods 

Nor  how  a  little  tin  god  answers  prayer 

And  makes  rain  and  brings  luck 

The  same  as  a  big  wooden  god  or  a  brass 

God  or  a  doughface  god  with  golden 

Earrings. 


Smoke  and  Steel  71 


MASK 

To  have  your  face  left  overnight 
Flung  on  a  board  by  a  crazy  sculptor; 
To  have  your  face  drop  off  a  board 
And  fall  to  pieces  on  a  floor  * 
Lost  among  lumps  all  finger-marked 
— How  now? 

To  be  calm  and  level,  placed  high, 
Looking  among  perfect  women  bathing 
And  among  bareheaded  long-armed  men, 
Corner  dreams  of  a  crazy  sculptor, 
And  then  to  fall,  drop  clean  off  the  board, 
Four  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  not  a  dog 
Nor  a  policeman  anywhere — 

Hoo  hoo! 

had  it  been  my  laughing  face 
maybe  I  would  laugh  with  you, 
but  my  lover's  face,  the  face  I  give 
women  and  the  moon  and  the  sea ! 


PLAYTHINGS  OF  THE  WIND 


Smoke  and  Steel  75 


FOUR  PRELUDES  ON  PLAYTHINGS  OF  THE 
WIND 


The  past  is  a  bucket  of  ashes! 


THE.  woman  named  To-morrow 
sits  with  a  hairpin  in  her  teeth 
and  takes  her  time 

and  does  her  hair  the  way  she  wants  it 
and  fastens  at  last  the  last  braid  and  coil 
and  puts  the  hairpin  where  it  belongs 
and  turns  and  drawls :  Well,  what  of  it  ? 
My  grandmother,  Yesterday,  is  gone. 
What  of  it?    Let  the  dead  be  dead. 


The  doors  were  cedar 

and  the  panels  strips  of  gold 

and  the  girls  were  golden  girls 

and  the  panels  read  and  the  girls  chanted : 
We  are  the  greatest  city, 
the  greatest  nation: 
nothing  like  us  ever  was. 


76  Playthings  of  the  Wind 

The  doors  are  twisted  on  broken  hinges. 
Sheets  of  rain  swish  through  on  the  wind 

where  the  golden  girls  ran  and  the  panels 
read: 

We  are  the  greatest  city, 

the  greatest  nation, 

nothing  like  us  ever  was. 


It  has  happened  before. 

Strong  men  put  up  a  city  and  got 

a  nation  together, 
And  paid  singers  to  sing  and  women 

to  warble :  We  are  the  greatest  city, 
the  greatest  nation, 
nothing  like  us  ever  was. 

And  while  the  singers  sang 

and  the  strong  men  listened 

and  paid  the  singers  well 

and  felt  good  about  it  all, 

there  were  rats  and  lizards  who  listened 

.    .    .  and  the  only  listeners  left  now 

.  .  .  are  .  .  .  the  rats  .  .  .  and  the  lizards. 

And  there  are  black  crows 
crying,  "  Caw,  caw," 
bringing  mud  and  sticks 
building  a  nest 


Playthings  of  the  Wind  77 

over  the  words  carved 
on  the  doors  where  the  panels  were  cedar 
and  the  strips  on  the  panels  were  gold 
and  the  golden  girls  came  singing: 

We  are  the  greatest  city, 

the  greatest  nation: 

nothing  like  us  ever  was. 

The  only  singers  now  are  crows  crying,  "  Caw,  caw," 
And  the  sheets  of  rain  whine  in  the  wind  and  doorways. 
And  the  only  listeners  now  are  ...  the  rats  .  .  .  and 
the  lizards. 


The  feet  of  the  rats 

scribble  on  the  door  sills ; 

the  hieroglyphs  of  the  rat  footprints 

chatter  the  pedigrees  of  the  rats 

and  babble  of  the  blood 

and  gabble  of  the  breed 

of  the  grandfathers  and  the  great-grandfathers 

of  the  rats. 

And  the  wind  shifts 

and  the  dust  on  a  door  sill  shifts 

and  even  the  writing  of  the  rat  footprints 

tells  us  nothing,  nothing  at  all 

about  the  greatest  city,  the  greatest  nation 

where  the  strong  men  listened 

and  the  women  warbled:  Nothing  like  us  ever 


78  Smoke  and  Steel 


BROKEN  TABERNACLES 

HAVE  I  broken  the  smaller  tabernacles,  O  Lord? 

And  in  the  destruction  of  these  set  up  the  greater  and 
massive,  the  everlasting  tabernacles? 

I  know  nothing  today,  what  I  have  done  and  why, 
O  Lord,  only  I  have  broken  and  broken  taber- 
nacles. 

They  were  beautiful  in  a  way,  these  tabernacles  torn 
down  by  strong  hands  swearing — 

They  were  beautiful — why  did  the  hypocrites  carve 
their  own  names  on  the  corner-stones?  why  did 
the  hypocrites  keep  on  singing  their  own  names 
in  their  long  noses  every  Sunday  in  these  taber- 
nacles? 

Who  lays  any  blame  here  among  the  split  corner- 
stones ? 


Smoke  and  Steel  79 


OSSAWATOMIE 

I  DON'T  know  how  he  came, 
shambling,  dark,  and  strong. 

He  stood  in  the  city  and  told  men: 

My  people  are  fools,  my  people  are  young  and  strong, 

my   people   must  learn,   my   people  are  terrible 

workers  and  fighters. 
Always  he  kept  on  asking :  Where  did  that  blood  come 

from? 


They  said:  You  for  the  fool  killer, 
you  for  the  booby  hatch 
and  a  necktie  party. 

They  hauled  him  into  jail. 
They  sneered  at  him  and  spit  on  him, 
And  he  wrecked  their  jails, 
Singing,  "  God  damn  your  jails," 
And  when  he  was  most  in  jail 
Crummy  among  the  crazy  in  the  dark 
Then  he  was  most  of  all  out  of  jail 
Shambling,  dark,  and  strong, 
Always  asking:  Where  did  that  blood  come  from? 


80  Ossawatomie 

They  laid  hands  on  him 

And  the  fool  killers  had  a  laugh 

And  the  necktie  party  was  a  go,  by  God. 
They  laid  hands  on  him  and  he  was  a  goner. 

They  hammered  him  to  pieces  and  he  stood  up. 
They  buried  him  and  he  walked  out  of  the  grave,  by  God, 

Asking  again :  Where  did  that  blood  come  from  ? 


Smoke  and  Steel  81 


LONG  GUNS 

THEN  came,  Oscar,  the  time  of  the  guns. 
And  there  was  no  land  for  a  man,  no  land  for  a 
country, 

Unless  guns  sprang  up 

And   spoke  their  language. 
The  how  of  running  the  world  was  all  in  guns. 

The  law  of  a  God  keeping  sea  and  land  apart, 
The  law  of  a  child  sucking  milk, 
The  law  of  stars  held  together, 

They  slept  and  worked  in  the  heads  of  men 

Making  twenty  mile  guns,  sixty  mile  guns, 

Speaking  their  language 

Of  no  land  for  a  man,  no  land  for  a  country 
Unless  .   .   .  guns  .  .  .  unless  .  .  .  guns. 

There  was  a  child  wanted  the  moon  shot  off  the  sky, 
asking  a  long  gun  to  get  the  moon, 
to  conquer  the  insults  of  the  moon, 
to  conquer  something,  anything, 
to  put  it  over  and  win  the  day, 

To  show  them  the  running  of  the  world  was  all  in  guns. 

There  was  a  child  wanted  the  moon  shot  off  the  sky. 

They  dreamed  ...  in  the  time  of  the  guns  ...  of  guns. 


82  Smoke  and  Steel 


DUSTY  DOORS 

CHILD  of  the  Aztec  gods, 
how  long  must  we  listen  here, 
how  long  before  we  go? 

The  dust  is  deep  on  the  lintels. 
The  dust  is  dark  on  the  doors. 
If  the  dreams  shake  our  bones, 
what  can  we  say  or  do? 

Since  early  morning  we  waited. 
Since  early,  early  morning,  child. 
There  must  be  dreams  on  the  way  now. 
There  must  be  a  song  for  our  bones. 

The  dust  gets  deeper  and  darker. 
Do  the  doors  and  lintels  shudder? 

How  long  must  we  listen  here? 

How  long  before  we  go? 


Smoke  and  Steel  83 

FLASH  CRIMSON 

I  SHALL  cry  God  to  give  me  a  broken  foot. 
I  shall  ask  for  a  scar  and  a  slashed  nose. 
I  shall  take  the  last  and  the  wcrst. 

I  shall  be  eaten  by  gray  creepers  in  a  bunkhouse  where 
no  runners  of  the  sun  come  and  no  dogs  live. 

And  yet — of  all  "  and  yets  "  this  is  the  bronze  strong- 
est— 

I  shall  keep  one  thing  better  than  all  else ;  there  is  the 
blue  steel  of  a  great  star  of  early  evening  in  it; 
it  lives  longer  than  a  broken  foot  or  any  scar. 

The  broken  foot  goes  to  a  hole  dug  with  a  shovel  or 
the  bone  of  a  nose  may  whiten  on  a  hilltop — and 
yet — "  and  yet  " — 

There^is  one  crimson  pinch  of  ashes  left  after  all; 
and  none  of  the  shifting  winds  that  whip  the  grass 
and  none  of  the  pounding  rains  that  beat  the  dust, 
know  how  to  touch  or  find  the  flash  of  this  crim- 
son. 


84  Flash  Crimson 

I  cry  God  to  give  me  a  broken  foot,  a  scar,  or  a  lousy 
death. 


I  who  have  seen  the  flash  of  this  crimson,  I  ask  God 
for  the  last  and  worst. 


Smoke  and  Steel  85 


THE  LAWYERS  KNOW  TOO  MUCH 


THE  lawyers,  Bob,  know  too  much. 

They  are  chums  of  the  books  of  old  John  Marshall. 

They  know  it  all,  what  a  dead  hand  wrote, 

A  stiff  dead  hand  and  its  knuckles  crumbling, 

The  bones  of  the  fingers  a  thin  white  ash. 

The  lawyers  know 

a  dead  man's  thoughts  too  well. 


In  the  heels  of  the  higgling  lawyers,  Bob, 
Too  many  slippery  ifs  and  buts  and  howevers, 
Too  much  hereinbefore  provided  whereas, 
Too  many  doors  to  go  in  and  out  of. 


When  the  lawyers  are  through 

What  is  there  left,  Bob? 

Can  a  mouse  nibble  at  it 

And  find  enough  to  fasten  a  tooth  in? 


Why  is  there  always   a  secret  singing 
When  a  lawyer  cashes  in? 
Why  does  a  hearse  horse  snicker 
Hauling  a  lawyer  away? 


86         The  Lawyers  Know  Too  Much 

The  work  of  a  bricklayer  goes  to  the  blue. 

The  knack  of  a  mason  outlasts  a  moon. 

The  hands  of  a  plasterer  hold  a  room  together. 

The  land  of  a  farmer  wishes  him  back  again. 
Singers  of  songs  and  dreamers  of  plays 
Build  a  house  no  wind  blows  over. 

The  lawyers — tell  me  why  a  hearse  horse  snickers 
hauling  a  lawyer's  bones. 


Smoke  and  Steel  87 


LOSERS 

IF  I  should  pass  the  tomb  of  Jonah 

I  would  stop  there  and  sit  for  awhile; 

Because  I  was  swallowed  one  time  deep  in  the  dark 

And  came  out  alive  after  all. 

If  I  pass  the  burial  spot  of  Nero 

I  shall  say  to  the  wind,  "  Well,  well !  "— 

I  who  have  fiddled  in  a  world  on  fire, 

I  who  have  done  so  many  stunts  not  worth  doing. 

I  am  looking  for  the  grave  of  Sinbad  too. 
I  want  to  shake  his  ghost-hand  and  say, 
"  Neither  of  us  died  very  early,  did  we?" 

And  the  last  sleeping-place  of  Nebuchadnezzar — 
When  I  arrive  there  I  shall  tell  the  wind : 
"  You  ate  grass ;  I  have  eaten  crow — 
Who  is  better  off  now  or  next  year  ?  " 

Jack  Cade,  John  Brown,  Jesse  James, 
There  too  I  could  sit  down  and  stop  for  awhile. 
I  think  I  could  tell  their  headstones : 
"  God,  let  me  remember  all  good  losers." 

I  could  ask  people  to  throw  ashes  on  their  heads 
In  the  name  of  that  sergeant  at  Belleau  Woods, 
Walking  into  the  drumfires,  calling  his  men, 
"  Come  on,  you  .  .  .    Do  you  want  to  live  forever  ?  " 


Smoke  and  Steel 


PLACES 

ROSES  and  gold 

For  you  today, 

And  the  flash  of  flying  flags. 

I  will  have 
Ashes, 

Dust  in  my  hair, 
Crushes  of  hoofs. 

Your  name 

Fills  the  mouth 

Of  rich  man  and  poor. 

Women  bring 
Armfuls  of  flowers 
And  throw  on  you. 

I  go  hungry 
Down  in  dreams 
And  loneliness, 
Across  the  rain 
To  slashed  hills 
Where  men  wait  and  hope  for  me. 


Smoke  and  Steel 


THREES 

I  WAS  a  boy  when  I  heard  three  red  words 
a  thousand  Frenchmen  died  in  the  streets 
for:  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity — I  asked 
why  men  die  for  words. 

I  was  older;  men  with  mustaches,  sideburns, 
lilacs,  told  me  the  high  golden  words  are : 
Mother,  Home,  and  Heaven — other  older  men  with 
face  decorations  said :  God,  Duty,  Immortality 
— they  sang  these  threes  slow  from  deep  lungs. 

Years  ticked  off  their  say-so  on  the  great  clocks 
of  doom  and  damnation,  soup  and  nuts :  meteors  flashed 
their  say-so :  and  out  of  great  Russia  came  three 
dusky  syllables  workmen  took  guns  and  went  out  to  die 
for:  Bread,  Peace,  Land. 

And  I  met  a  marine  of  the  U.  S.  A.,  a  leatherneck  with 
a  girl  on  his  knee  for  a  memory  in  ports  circling  the 
earth  and  he  said:  Tell  me  how  to  say  three  things 
and  I  always  get  by — gimme  a  plate  of  ham  and  eggs — 
how  much? — and — do  you  love  me,  kid? 


90  Smoke  and  Steel 


THE  LIARS 
(March,  1919} 

A  LIAR  goes  in  fine  clothes. 

A  liar  goes  in  rags. 

A  liar  is  a  liar,  clothes  or  no  clothes. 

A  liar  is  a  liar  and  lives  on  the  lies  he  tells 

and  dies  in  a  life  of  lies. 
And  the  stonecutters  earn  a  living — with  lies — 

on  the  tombs  of  liars. 

A  liar  looks  'em  in  the  eye 

And  lies  to  a  woman, 

Lies  to  a  man,  a  pal,  a  child,  a  fool. 

And  he  is  an  old  liar ;  we  know  him  many  years  back. 

A  liar  lies  to  nations. 

A  liar  lies  to  the  people. 
A  liar  takes  the  blood  of  the  people 
And  drinks  this  blood  with  a  laugh  and  a  lie, 

A  laugh  in  his  neck, 

A  lie  in  his  mouth. 
And  this  liar  is  an  old  one ;  we  know  him  many  years. 

He  is  straight  as  a  dog's  hind  leg. 

He  is  straight  as  a  corkscrew. 
He  is  white  as  a  black  cat's  foot  at  midnight. 


The  Liars  91 

The  tongue  of  a  man  is  tied  on  this, 
On  the  liar  who  lies  to  nations, 
The  liar  who  lies  to  the  people. 
The  tongue  of  a  man  is  tied  on  this 
And  ends:  To  hell  with  'em  all. 
To  hell  with  'em  all. 

It's  a  song  hard  as  a  riveter's  hammer, 
Hard  as  the  sleep  of  a  crummy  hobo, 
Hard  as  the  sleep  of  a  lousy  doughboy, 

Twisted  as  a  shell-shock  idiot's  gibber. 

The  liars  met  where  the  doors  were  locked. 
They  said  to  each  other :  Now  for  war. 
The  liars  fixed  it  and  told  'em :  Go. 

Across  their  tables  they  fixed  it  up, 

Behind  their  doors  away  from  the  mob. 

And  the  guns  did  a  job  that  nicked  off  millions. 

The  guns  blew  seven  million  off  the  map, 

The  guns  sent  seven  million  west. 

Seven  million  shoving  up  the  daisies. 

Across  their  tables  they  fixed  it  up, 

The  liars  who  lie  to  nations. 

And  now 

Out  of  the  butcher's  job 

And  the  boneyard  junk  the  maggots  have  cleaned, 
Where  the  jaws  of  skulls  tell  the  jokes  of  war  ghosts, 
Out  of  this  they  are  calling  now :  Let's  go  back  where 
we  were. 

Let  us  run  the  world  again,  us,  us. 


92  The  Liars 

Where  the  doors  are  locked  the  liars  say:  Wait  and 
we'll  cash  in  again. 

So  I  hear  The  People  talk. 
I  hear  them  tell  each  other: 

Let  the  strong  men  be  ready. 

Let  the  strong  men  watch. 

Let  your  wrists  be  cool  and  your  head  clear. 

Let  the  liars  get  their  finish, 

The  liars  and  their  waiting  game,  waiting  a  day  again 

To  open  the  doors  and  tell  us :  War !  get  out  to  your 
war  again. 

So  I  hear  The  People  tell  each  other : 
Look  at  to-day  and  to-morrow. 
Fix  this  clock  that  nicks  off  millions 
When  The  Liars  say  it's  time. 
Take  things  in  your  own  hands. 

To  hell  with  'em  all, 
The  liars  who  lie  to  nations, 
The  liars  who  lie  to  The  People. 


Smoke  and  Steel  93 


PRAYER  AFTER  WORLD  WAR 

WANDERING  oversea  dreamer, 

Hunting  and  hoarse,  Oh  daughter  and  mother, 

Oh  daughter  of  ashes  and  mother  of  blood, 

Child  of  the  hair  let  down,  and  tears, 

Child  of  the  cross  in  the  south 

And  the  star  in  the  north, 

Keeper  of  Egypt  and  Russia  and  France, 

Keeper  of  England  and  Poland  and  Spain, 

Make  us  a  song  for  to-morrow. 

Make  us  one  new  dream,  us  who  forget, 

Out  of  the  storm  let  us  have  one  star. 

Struggle,  Oh  anvils,  and  help  her. 
Weave  with  your  wool,  Oh  winds  and  skies. 
Let  your  iron  and  copper  help, 

Oh  dirt  of  the  old  dark  earth. 

Wandering  oversea  singer, 
Singing  of  ashes  and  blood, 
Child  of  the  scars  of  fire, 

Make  us  one  new  dream,  us  who  forget. 

Out  of  the  storm  let  us  have  one  star. 


94  Smoke  and  Steel 


A.  E.  F. 

THERE  will  be  a  rusty  gun  on  the  wall,  sweetheart, 

The  rifle  grooves  curling  with  flakes  of  rust. 

A  spider  will  make  a  silver  string  nest  in  the 
darkest,  warmest  corner  of  it. 

The  trigger  and  the  range-finder,  they  too  will  be  rusty. 

And  no  hands  will  polish  the  gun,  and  it  will  hang 
on  the  wall. 

Forefingers  and  thumbs  will  point  absently  and  casu- 
ally toward  it. 

It  will  be  spoken  among  half-forgotten,  wished-to-be- 
forgotten  things. 

They  will  tell  the  spider :  Go  on,  you're  doing  good 
work. 


Smoke  and  Steel  95 


BAS-RELIEF 

FIVE  geese  deploy  mysteriously. 
Onward  proudly  with  flagstaffs, 
Hearses  with  silver  bugles, 
Bushels  of  plum-blossoms  dropping 
For  ten  mystic  web- feet — 
Each  his  own  drum-major, 
Each  charged  with  the  honor 
Of  the  ancient  goose  nation, 
Each  with  a  nose-length  surpassing 
The  nose-lengths  of  rival  nations. 
Somberly,   slowly,  unimpeachably, 
Five  geese  deploy  mysteriously. 


96  Smoke  and  Steel 


CARLOVINGIAN  DREAMS 

COUNT  these  reminiscences  like  money. 

The  Greeks  had  their  picnics  under  another  name. 

The  Romans  wore  glad  rags  and  told  their  neighbors, 

"  What  of  it  ?  " 

The  Carlovingians  hauling  logs  on  carts,  they  too 
Stuck  their  noses  in  the  air  and  stuck  their  thumbs  to 

their  noses 
And  tasted  life  as  a  symphonic  dream  of  fresh  eggs 

broken  over  a  frying  pan  left  by  an  uncle  who 

killed  men  with  spears  and  short  swords. 
Count  these  reminiscences  like  money. 

Drift,  and  drift  on,  white  ships. 
Sailing  the  free  sky  blue,  sailing  and  changing  and 

sailing, 
Oh,  I  remember  in  the  blood  of  my  dreams  how  they 

sang  before  me. 

Oh,  they  were  men  and  women  who  got  money  for 
their  work,  money  or  love  or  dreams. 
Sail  on,  white  ships. 
Let  me  have  spring  dreams. 

Let  me  count  reminiscences  like  money;  let  me  count 
picnics,  glad  rags  and  the  great  bad  manners  of 
the  Carlovingians  breaking  fresh  eggs  in  the  cop- 
per pans  of  their  proud  uncles. 


Smoke  and  Steel  97 


BRONZES 

THEY  ask  me  to  handle  bronzes 

Kept  by  children  in  China 

Three  thousand  years 

Since  their  fathers 

Took  fire  and  molds  and  hammers 

And  made  these. 

The  Ming,  the  Chou, 

And  other  dynasties, 

Out,  gone,  reckoned  in  ciphers, 

Dynasties  dressed  up 

In  old  gold  and  old  yellow — 

They  saw  these. 

Let  the  wheels 

Of  three  thousand  years 

Turn,  turn,  turn  on. 

Let  one  poet  then 
(One  will  be  enough) 
Handle  these  bronzes 
And  mention  the  dynasties 
And  pass  them  along. 


Smoke  and  Steel 


LET  LOVE  GO  ON 

LET  it  go  on ;  let  the  love  of  this  hour  be  poured  out 
till  all  the  answers  are  made,  the  last  dollar  spent 
and  the  last  blood  gone. 

Time  runs  with  an  ax  and  a  hammer,  time  slides  dosvn 
the  hallways  with  a  pass-key  and  a  master-key, 
and  time  gets  by,  time  wins. 

Let  the  love  of  this  hour  go  on ;  let  all  the  oaths  and 
children  and  people  of  this  love  be  clean  as  a 
washed  stone  under  a  waterfall  in  the  sun. 

Time  is  a  young  man  with  ballplayer  legs,  time  runs 
a  winning  race  against  life  and  the  clocks,  time 
tickles  with  rust  and  spots. 

Let  love  go  on ;  the  heartbeats  are  measured  out  with 
a  measuring  glass,  so  many  apiece  to  gamble  with, 
to  use  and  spend  and  reckon ;  let  love  go  on. 


Smoke  and  Steel  99 


KILLERS 

I  AM  put  high  over  all  others  in  the  city  today. 
I  am  the  killer  who  kills  for  those  who  wish  a  killing 
today. 

Here  is  a  strong  young  man  who  killed. 

There  was  a  driving  wind  of  city  dust  and  horse  dung 
blowing  and  he  stood  at  an  intersection  of  five 
sewers  and  there  pumped  the  bullets  of  an  auto- 
matic pistol  into  another  man,  a  fellow  citizen. 

Therefore,  the  prosecuting  attorneys,  fellow  citizens, 
and  a  jury  of  his  peers,  also  fellow  citizens,  lis- 
tened to  the  testimony  of  other  fellow  citizens, 
policemen,  doctors,  and  after  a  verdict  of  guilty, 
the  judge,  a  fellow  citizen,  said :  I  sentence  you 
to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  till  you  are  dead. 

So  there  is  a  killer  to  be  killed  and  I  am  the  killer  of 
the  killer  for  today. 

I  don't  know  why  it  beats  in  my  head  in  the  lines  I 
read  once  in  an  old  school  reader :  I'm  to  be  queen 
of  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  queen  of  the  May. 

Anyhow  it  comes  back  in  language  just  like  that  today. 

I  am  the  high  honorable  killer  today. 

There  are  five  million  people  in  the  state,  five  million 

killers  for  whom  I  kill 

I  am  the  killer  who  kills  today  for  five  million  killers 
who  wish  a  killing. 


100       2  Smoke  and  Steel 


CLEAN  HANDS 

IT  is  something  to  face  the  sun  and  know  you  are  free. 
To  hold  your  head  in  the  shafts  of  daylight  slanting 

the  earth 

And  know  your  heart  has  kept  a  promise  and  the  blood 
runs  clean : 

It  is  something. 
To  go  one  day  of  your  life  among  all  men  with  clean 

hands, 
Clean  for  the  day  book  today  and  the  record  of  the 

after  days, 

Held  at  your  side  proud,  satisfied  to  the  last,  and  ready, 
So  to  have  clean  hands : 

God,  it  is  something, 
One  day  of  life  so 

And  a  memory  fastened  till  the  stars  sputter  out 
And  a  love  washed  as  white  linen  in  the  noon 

drying. 

Yes,  go  find  the  men  of  clean  hands  one  day  and  see 
the  life,  the  memory,  the  love  they  have,  to  stay 
longer  than  the  plunging  sea  wets  the  shores  or 
the  fires  heave  under  the  crust  of  the  earth. 
O  yes,  clean  hands  is  the  chant  and  only  one  man 
knows  its  sob  and  its  undersong  and  he  dies 
clenching  the  secret  more  to  him  than  any  woman 
or  chum. 


Clean  Hands  '      101 

And  O  the  great  brave  men,  the  silent  little  brave 
men,  proud  of  their  hands — clutching  the  knuckles 
of  their  fingers  into  fists  ready  for  death  and  the 
dark,  ready  for  life  and  the  fight,  the  pay  and  the 
memories — O  the  men  proud  of  their  hands. 


IO2  Smoke  and  Steel 


THREE  GHOSTS 

THREE  tailors  of  Tooley  Street  wrote :  We,  the  People. 
The  names  are  forgotten.  It  is  a  joke  in  ghosts. 

Cutters  or  bushelmen  or  armhole  basters,  they  sat 
cross-legged  stitching,  snatched  at  scissors,  stole  each 
other  thimbles. 

Cross-legged,  working  for  wages,  joking  each  other 
as  misfits  cut  from  the  cloth  of  a  Master  Tailor, 
they  sat  and  spoke  their  thoughts  of  the  glory  of 
The  People,  they  met  after  work  and  drank  beer  to 
The  People. 

Faded  off  into  the  twilights  the  names  are  forgotten. 
It  is  a  joke  in  ghosts.  Let  it  ride.  They  wrote :  We, 
The  People. 


Smoke  and  Steel  103 


PENCILS 

PENCILS 

telling  where  the  wind  comes  from 
open  a  story. 

Pencils 

telling  where  the  wind  goes 
end  a  story. 

These  eager  pencils 

come  to  a  stop 

.    .    only    .    .    when  the  stars  high  over 

come  to  a  stop. 

Out  of  cabalistic  to-morrows 
come  cryptic  babies  calling  life 
a  strong  and  a  lovely  thing. 

I  have  seen  neither  these 
nor  the  stars  high  over 
come  to  a  stop. 

Neither  these  nor  the  sea  horses 
running  with  the  clocks  of  the  moon. 
Nor  even  a  shooting  star 
snatching  a  pencil  of  fire 
writing  a  curve  of  gold  and  white. 


IO4  Pencils 

Like  you    .    .    I  counted  the  shooting  stars  of  a 
winter  night  and  my  head  was  dizzy  with  all 
of  them  calling  one  by  one : 

Look  for  us  again. 


Smoke  and  Steel  105 


JUG 

THE  shale  and  water  thrown  together  so-so  first  of  all, 

Then  a  potter's  hand  on  the  wheel  and  his  fingers  shap- 
ing the  jug ;  out  of  the  mud  a  mouth  and  a  handle ; 

Slimpsy,  loose  and  ready  to  fall  at  a  touch,  fire  plays 
on  it,  slow  fire  coaxing  all  the  water  out  of  the 
shale  mix. 

Dipped  in  glaze  more  fire  plays  on  it  till  a  molasses  lava 
runs  in  waves,  rises  and  retreats,  a  varnish  of 
volcanoes. 

Take  it  now;  out  of  mud  now  here  is  a  mouth  and 
handle;  out  of  this  now  mothers  will  pour  milk 
and  maple  syrup  and  cider,  vinegar,  apple  juice, 
and  sorghum. 

There  is  nothing  proud  about  this;  only  one  out  of 
many ;  the  potter's  wheel  slings  them  out  and  the 
fires  harden  them  hours  and  hours  thousands  and 
thousands. 

"  Be  good  to  me,  put  me  down  easy  on  the  floors  of 
the  new  concrete  houses ;  I  was  poured  out  like  a 
concrete  house  and  baked  in  fire  too." 


io6  Smoke  and  Steel 


AND  THIS  WILL  BE  ALL? 

AND  this  will  be  all? 

And  the  gates  will  never  open  again? 

And  the  dust  and  the  wind  will  play  around  the  rusty 

door  hinges  and  the  songs  of  October  moan,  Why- 

oh,  why-oh? 

And  you  will  look  to  the  mountains 
And  the  mountains  will  look  to  you 
And  you  will  wish  you  were  a  mountain 
And  the  mountain  will  wish  nothing  at  all? 

This  will  be  all  ? 
The  gates  will  never-never  open  again? 

The  dust  and  the  wind  only 
And  the  rusty  door  hinges  and  moaning  October 
And  Why-oh,  why-oh,  in  the  moaning  dry  leaves, 
This  will  be  all  ? 

Nothing  in  the  air  but  songs 
And  no  singers,  no  mouths  to  know  the  songs  ? 
You  tell  us  a  woman  with  a  heartache  tells  you  it  is  so  ? 
This  will  be  all? 


Smoke  and  Steel  107 


HOODLUMS 

I  AM  a  hoodlum,  you  are  a  hoodlum,  we  and  all  of  us 

are  a  world  of  hoodlums — maybe  so. 
I  hate  and  kill  better  men  than  I  am,  so  do  you,  so 

do  all  of  us — maybe — maybe  so. 
In  the  ends  of  my  fingers  the  itch  for  another  man's 

neck,  I  want  to  see  him  hanging,  one  of  dusk's 

cartoons  against  the  sunset. 
This  is  the  hate  my  father  gave  me,  this  was  in  my 

mother's  milk,  this  is  you  and  me  and  all  of  us 

in  a  world  of  hoodlums — maybe  so. 
Let  us  go  on,  brother  hoodlums,  let  us  kill  and  kill,  it 

has  always  been  so,  it  will  always  be  so,  there  is 

nothing  more  to  it. 
Let  us  go  on,  sister  hoodlums,  kill,  kill,  and  kill,  the 

torsoes  of  the  world's  mother's  are  tireless  and  the 

loins  of  the  world's  fathers  are  strong — so  go  on 

—kill,  kill,  kill. 
Lay  them  deep  in  the  dirt,  the  stiffs  we  fixed,  the 

cadavers  bumped  off,  lay  them  deep  and  let  the 

night  winds  of  winter  blizzards  howl  their  burial 

service. 
The  night  winds  and  the  winter,  the  great  white  sheets 

of  northern  blizzards,  who  can  sing  better  for  the 

lost  hoodlums  the  old  requiem,  "  Kill  him !  kill 

him!  .       ." 


io8  Hoodlums 

Today  my  son,  to-morrow  yours,  the  day  after  your 
next  door  neighbor's — it  is  all  in  the  wrists  of 
the  gods  who  shoot  craps — it  is  anybody's  guess 
whose  eyes  shut  next. 

Being  a  hoodlum  now,  you  and  I,  being  all  of  us  a 
world  of  hoodlums,  let  us  take  up  the  cry  when 
the  mob  sluffs  by  on  a  thousand  shoe  soles,  let 
us  too  yammer,  "  Kill  him  !  kill  him !  .  .  . " 

Let  us  do  this  now  .  .  .  for  our  mothers  .   .   .  for  our 
sisters  and  wives   ...   let  us  kill,  kill,  kill — for 
the  torsoes  of  the  women  are  tireless  and  the 
loins  of  the  men  are  strong. 
Chicago,  July  29,  1919. 


Smoke  and  Steel  109 


YES,  THE  DEAD  SPEAK  TO  US 


YES,  the  Dead  speak  to  us. 

This  town  belongs  to  the  Dead,  to  the  Dead  and  to 
the  Wilderness. 


Back  of  the  clamps  on  a  fireproof  door  they  hold  the 
papers  of  the  Dead  in  a  house  here 

And  when  two  living  men  fall  out,  when  one  says  the 
Dead  spoke  a  Yes,  and  the  other  says  the  Dead 
spoke  a  No,  they  go  then  together  to  this  house. 


They  loosen  the  clamps  and  haul  at  the  hasps  and  try 
their  keys  and  curse  at  the  locks  and  the  combina- 
tion numbers. 

For  the  teeth  of  the  rats  are  barred  and  the  tongues 
of  the  moths  are  outlawed  and  the  sun  and  the 
air  of  wind  is  not  wanted. 


They  open  a  box  where  a  sheet  of  paper  shivers,  in  a 

dusty  corner  shivers  with  the  dry  inkdrops  of  the 

Dead,  the  signed  names. 
Here  the  ink  testifies,  here  we  find  the  say-so,  here 

we  learn  the  layout,   now  we  know  where  the 

cities  and  farms  belong. 


no         Yes,  the  Dead  Speak   to   Us 

Dead  white  men  and  dead  red  men 
tested  each  other  with  shot  and 
knives :  they  twisted  each  others' 
necks :  land  was  yours  if  you  took  and 
kept  it. 


How  are  the  heads  the  rain  seeps 
in,  the  rain-washed  knuckles  in 
sod  and  gumbo? 


Where  the  sheets  of  paper  shiver, 

Back  of  the  hasps  and  handles, 

Back  of  the  fireproof  clamps, 

They  read  what  the  fingers  scribbled,  who  the  land 
belongs  to  now — it  is  herein  provided,  it  is  hereby 
stipulated — the  land  and  all  appurtenances  thereto  and 
all  deposits  of  oil  and  gold  and  coal  and  silver,  and 
all  pockets  and  repositories  of  gravel  and  diamonds, 
dung  and  permanganese,  and  all  clover  and  bumblebees, 
all  bluegrass,  johnny-jump-ups,  grassroots,  springs  of 
running  water  or  rivers  or  lakes  or  high  spreading 
trees  or  hazel  bushes  or  sumach  or  thorn-apple  branches 
or  high  in  the  air  the  bird  nest  with  spotted  blue  eggs 
shaken  in  the  roaming  wind  of  the  treetops — 

So  it  is  scrawled  here, 

"  I  direct  and  devise 

So  and  so  and  such  and  such," 

And  this  is  the  last  word. 

There  is  nothing  more  to  it. 


Yes,  the  Dead  Speak  to  Us  1 1 1 

In  a  shanty  out  in  the  Wilderness,  ghosts  of  to-morrow 
sit,  waiting  to  come  and  go,  to  do  their  job. 

They  will  go  into  the  house  of  the  Dead  and  take  the 
shivering  sheets  of  paper  and  make  a  bonfire  and 
dance  a  deadman's  dance  over  the  hissing  crisp. 

In  a  slang  their  own  the  dancers  out  of  the  Wilderness 
will  write  a  paper  for  the  living  to  read  and  sign : 

The  dead  need  peace,  the  dead  need  sleep,  let  the  dead 
have  peace  and  sleep,  let  the  papers  of  the  Dead 
who  fix  the  lives  of  the  Living,  let  them  be  a 
hissing  crisp  and  ashes,  let  the  young  men  and  the 
young  women  forever  understand  we  are  through 
and  no  longer  take  the  say-so  of  the  Dead; 

Let  the  dead  have  honor  from  us  with  our  thoughts 
of  them  and  our  thoughts  of  land  and  all  appur- 
tenances thereto  and  all  deposits  of  oil  and  gold 
and  coal  and  silver,  and  all  pockets  and  repositories 
of  gravel  and  diamonds,  dung  and  permanganese, 
and  all  clover  and  bumblebees,  all  bluegrass, 
johnny-jump-ups,  grassroots,  springs  of  running 
water  or  rivers  or  lakes  or  high  spreading  trees 
or  hazel  bushes  or  sumach  or  thornapple  branches 
or  high  in  the  air  the  bird  nest  with  spotted  blue 
eggs  shaken  in  the  roaming  wind  of  the  treetops. 

And  so,  it  is  a  shack  of  ghosts,  a  lean-to  they  have  in 
the  Wilderness,  and  they  are  waiting  and  they 
have  learned  strange  songs  how  easy  it  is  to  wait 
and  how  anything  comes  to  those  who  wait  long 
enough  and  how  most  of  all  it  is  easy  to  wait  for 
death,  and  waiting,  dream  of  new  cities. 


MIST  FORMS 


Smoke  and  Steel 


CALLS 

BECAUSE  I  have  called  to  you 
as  the  flame  flamingo  calls, 
or  the  want  of  a  spotted  hawk 
is  called — 

because  in  the  dusk 
the  warblers  shoot  the  running 
waters  of  short  songs  to  the 
homecoming  warblers — 

because 

the  cry  here  is  wing  to  wing 
and  song  to  song — 

I  am  waiting, 

waiting  with  the  flame  flamingo, 
the  spotted  hawk,  the  running  water 
warbler — 

waiting  for  you. 


Ii6  Smoke  and  Steel 


SEA-WASH 

THE  sea-wash  never  ends. 

The  sea-wash  repeats,  repeats. 

Only  old  songs  ?    Is  that  all  the  sea  knows  ? 

Only  the  old  strong  songs? 

Is  that  all? 
The  sea-wash  repeats,  repeats. 


Smoke  and  Steel  117 


SILVER  WIND 

Do  you  know  how  the  dream  looms  ?  how  if  summer 
misses  one  of  us  the  two  of  us  miss  summer — 

Summer  when  the  lungs  of  the  earth  take  a  long 
breath  for  the  change  to  low  contralto  singing 
mornings  when  the  green  corn  leaves  first  break 
through  the  black  loam — 

And  another  long  breath  for  the  silver  soprano  melody 
of  the  moon  songs  in  the  light  nights  when  the 
earth  is  lighter  than  a  feather,  the  iron  mountains 
lighter  than  a  goose  down — 

So  I  shall  look  for  you  in  the  light  nights  then,  in  the 
laughter  of  slats  of  silver  under  a  hill  hickory. 

In  the  listening  tops  of  the  hickories,  in  the  wind 
motions  of  the  hickory  shingle  leaves,  in  the  imi- 
tations of  slow  sea  water  on  the  shingle  silver 
in  the  wind — 

I  shall  look  for  you. 


n8  Smoke  and  Steel 


EVENING  WATERFALL 

WHAT  was  the  name  you  called  me?  — 
And  why  did  you  go  so  soon? 

The  crows  lift  their  caw  on  the  wind, 
And  the  wind  changed  and  was  lonely. 

The  warblers  cry  their  sleepy-songs 

Across  the  valley  gloaming, 

Across  the  cattle-horns  of  early  stars. 

Feathers  and  people  in  the  crotch  of  a  treetop 
Throw  an  evening  waterfall  of  sleepy-songs, 

What  was  the  name  you  called  me? — 
And  why  did  you  go  so  soon? 


Smoke  and  Steel  119 


CRUCIBLE 

HOT  gold  runs  a  winding  stream  on  the  inside  of  a 
green  bowl. 

Yellow  trickles  in  a  fan  figure,  scatters  a  line  of 
skirmishers,  spreads  a  chorus  of  dancing  girls, 
performs  blazing  ochre  evolutions,  gathers  the 
whole  show  into  one  stream,  forgets  the  past  and 
rolls  on. 

The  sea-mist  green  of  the  bowl's  bottom  is  a  dark 
throat  of  sky  crossed  by  quarreling  forks  of 
umber  and  ochre  and  yellow  changing  faces. 


I2O  Smoke  and  Steel 


SUMMER  STARS 

BEND  low  again,  night  of  summer  stars. 
So  near  you  are,  sky  of  summer  stars, 
So  near,  a  long  arm  man  can  pick  off  stars, 
Pick  off  what  he  wants  in  the  sky  bowl, 
So  near  you  are,  summer  stars, 
So  near,  strumming,  strumming, 

So  lazy  and  hum-strumming. 


Smoke  and  Steel  121 


THROW  ROSES 

THROW  roses  on  the  sea  where  the  dead  went  down. 

The  roses  speak  to  the  sea, 

And  the  sea  to  the  dead. 
Throw  roses,  O  lovers — 

Let  the  leaves  wash  on  the  salt  in  the  sun. 


122  Smoke  and  Steel 


JUST  BEFORE  APRIL  CAME 

THE  snow  piles  in  dark  places  are  gone. 
Pools  by  the  railroad  tracks  shine  clear. 
The  gravel  of  all  shallow  places  shines. 
A  white  pigeon  reels  and  somersaults. 

Frogs  plutter  and  squdge — and  frogs  beat 
the  air  with  a  recurring  thin 
steel  sliver  of  melody. 

Crows  go  in  fives  and  tens ;  they  march  their 
black  feathers  past  a  blue  pool ;  they 
celebrate  an  old  festival. 

A  spider  is  trying  his  webs,  a  pink  bug  sits 
on  my  hand  washing  his  forelegs. 

I  might  ask:  Who  are  these  people? 


Smoke  and  Steel  123 


STARS,  SONGS,  FACES 

GATHER  the  stars  if  you  wish  it  so. 
Gather  the  songs  and  keep  them. 
Gather  the  faces  of  women. 
Gather  for  keeping  years  and  years. 

And  then  .    .    . 
Loosen  your  hands,  let  go  and  say  good-by. 

Let  the  stars  and  songs  go. 

Let  the  faces  and  years  go. 

Loosen  your  hands  and  say  good-by. 


124  Smoke  and  Steel 


SANDPIPERS 

TEN  miles  of  flat  land  along  the  sea. 

Sandland  where  the  salt  water  kills  the 
sweet  potatoes. 

Homes  for  sandpipers — the  script  of  their 
feet  is  on  the  sea  shingles — they  write 
in  the  morning,  it  is  gone  at  noon — they 
write  at  noon,  it  is  gone  at  night. 

Pity  the  land,  the  sea,  the  ten  mile  flats, 
pity  anything  but  the  sandpiper's  wire 
legs  and  feet. 


Smoke  and  Steel  125 


THREE  VIOLINS 

THREE  violins  are  trying  their  hearts. 
The  piece  is  MacDowell's  Wild  Rose. 

And  the  time  of  the  wild  rose 

And  the  leaves  of  the  wild  rose 
And  the  dew-shot  eyes  of  the  wild  rose 
Sing  in  the  air  over  three  violins. 
Somebody  like  you  was  in  the  heart  of  MacDowell. 
Somebody  like  you  is  in  three  violins. 


126  Smoke  and  Steel 


THE  WIND  SINGS  WELCOME  IN  EARLY 
SPRING 

(For  Paula} 

THE  grip  of  the  ice  is  gone  now. 
The  silvers  chase  purple. 
The  purples  tag  silver. 

They  let  out  their  runners 
Here  where  summer  says  to  the  lilies : 

"  Wish  and  be  wistful, 
Circle  this  wind-hunted,   wind-sung  water." 

Come  along  always,  come  along  now. 
You  for  me,  kiss  me,  pull  me  by  the  ear. 
Push  me  along  with  the  wind  push. 
Sing  like  the  whinnying  wind. 
Sing  like  the  hustling  obstreperous  wind. 

Have  you  ever  seen  deeper  purple  .   .  . 

this  in  my  wild  wind  fingers? 
Could  you  have  more  fun  with  a  pony  or  a  goat? 
Have  you  seen  such  flicking  heels  before, 
Silver  jig  heels  on  the  purple  sky  rim? 

Come  along  always,  come  along  now. 


Smoke  and  Steel  127 

TAWNY 
THESE  are  the  tawny  days :  your  face  comes  back. 

The  grapes  take  on  purple:  the  sunsets  redden 
early  on  the  trellis. 

The  bashful  mornings  hurl  gray  mist  on  the  stripes 
of  sunrise. 

Creep,  silver  on  the  field,  the  frost  is  welcome. 

Run  on,  yellow  balls  on  the  hills,  and  you  tawny 
pumpkin  flowers,  chasing  your  lines  of  orange. 

Tawny  days:  and  your  face  again. 


1 28  Smoke  and  Steel 


SLIPPERY 

THE  six  month  child 

Fresh  from  the  tub 

Wriggles  in  our  hands. 

This  is  our  fish  child. 

Give  her  a  nickname:  Slippery. 


Smoke  and  Steel  129 


HELGA 

THE  wishes  on  this  child's  mouth 
Came  like  snow  on  marsh  cranberries ; 
The  tamarack  kept  something  for  her; 
The  wind  is  ready  to  help  her  shoes. 
The  north  has  loved  her;  she  will  be 
A  grandmother  feeding  geese  on  frosty 
Mornings ;  she  will  understand 
Early  snow  on  the  cranberries 
Better  and  better  then. 


13°  Smoke  and  Steel 


BABY  TOES 

THERE  is  a  blue  star,  Janet, 

Fifteen  years'  ride  from  us, 

If  we  ride  a  hundred  miles  an  hour. 

There  is  a  white  star,  Janet, 

Forty  years'  ride  from  us, 

If  we  ride  a  hundred  miles  an  hour. 

Shall  we  ride 
To  the  blue  star 
Or  the  white  star? 


Smoke  and  Steel  131 


PEOPLE  WITH  PROUD  CHINS 

I  TELL  them  where  the  wind  comes  from, 

Where  the  music  goes  when  the  fiddle  is  in  the  box. 

Kids — I  saw  one  with  a  proud  chin,  a  sleepyhead, 
And  the  moonline  creeping  white  on  her  pillow. 
I  have  seen  their  heads  in  the  starlight 
And  their  proud  chins  marching  in  a  mist  of  stars. 

They  are  the  only  people  I  never  lie  to. 

I  give  them  honest  answers, 

Answers  shrewd  as  the  circles  of  white  on  brown 
chestnuts. 


132  Smoke  and  Steel 


WINTER  MILK 

THE  milk  drops  on  your  chin,  Helga, 

Must  not  interfere  with  the  cranberry  red  of  your 

cheeks 

Nor  the  sky  winter  blue  of  your  eyes. 
Let  your  mammy  keep  hands  of!  the  chin. 
This  is  a  high  holy  spatter  of  white  on  the  reds  and 

blues. 

Before  the  bottle  was  taken  away, 

Before  you  so  proudly  began  today 

Drinking  your  milk  from  the  rim  of  a  cup 

They  did  not  splash  this  high  holy  white  on  your  chin. 

There  are  dreams  in  your  eyes,  Helga. 
Tall  reaches  of  wind  sweep  the  clear  blue. 
The  winter  is  young  yet,  so  young. 
Only  a  little  cupful  of  winter  has  touched  your  lips. 
Drink  on  ...  milk  with  your  lips  .   .   .  dreams  with 
your  eyes. 


Smoke  and  Steel  133 


SLEEPYHEADS 

SLEEP  is  a  maker  of  makers.  Birds  sleep.  Feet  cling 
to  a  perch.  Look  at  the  balance.  Let  the  legs  loosen, 
the  backbone  untwist,  the  head  go  heavy  over,  the 
whole  works  tumbles  a  done  bird  off  the  perch. 

Fox  cubs  sleep.  The  pointed  head  curls  round  into 
hind  legs  and  tail.  It  is  a  ball  of  red  hair.  It  is  a  muff 
waiting.  A  wind  might  whisk  it  in  the  air  across 
pastures  and  rivers,  a  cocoon,  a  pod  of  seeds.  The 
snooze  of  the  black  nose  is  in  a  circle  of  red  hair. 

Old  men  sleep.  In  chimney  corners,  in  rocking  chairs, 
at  wood  stoves,  steam  radiators.  They  talk  and  forget 
and  nod  and  are  out  of  talk  with  closed  eyes.  For- 
getting to  live.  Knowing  the  time  has  come  useless 
for  them  to  live.  Old  eagles  and  old  dogs  run  and 
fly  in  the  dreams. 

Babies  sleep.  In  flannels  the  papoose  faces,  the  bam- 
bino noses,  and  dodo,  dodo  the  song  of  many  matush- 
kas.  Babies — a  leaf  on  a  tree  in  the  spring  sun.  A 
nub  of  a  new  thing  sucks  the  sap  of  a  tree  in  the  sun, 
yes  a  new  thing,  a  what-is-it?  A  left  hand  stirs,  an 
eyelid  twitches,  the  milk  in  the  belly  bubbles  and  gets 
to  be  blood  and  a  left  hand  and  an  eyelid.  Sleep  is 
a  maker  of  makers. 


134  Smoke  and  Steel 


SUMACH  AND  BIRDS 

IF  you  never  came  with  a  pigeon  rainbow  purple 
Shining  in  the  six  o'clock  September  dusk: 
If  the  red  sumach  on  the  autumn  roads 
Never  danced  on  the  flame  of  your  eyelashes: 
If  the  red-haws  never  burst  in  a  million 
Crimson  fingertwists  of  your  heartcrying: 
If  all  this  beauty  of  yours  never  crushed  me 
Then  there  are  many  flying  acres  of  birds  for  me, 
Many  drumming  gray  wings  going  home  I  shall  see, 
Many  crying  voices  riding  the  north  wind. 


Smoke  and  Steel  135 

f 
WOMEN  WASHING  THEIR  HAIR 

THEY  have  painted  and  sung 

the  women  washing  their  hair, 

and  the  plaits  and  strands  in  the  sun, 

and  the  golden  combs 

and  the  combs  of  elephant  tusks 

and  the  combs  of  buffalo  horn  and  hoof. 

The  sun  has  been  good  to  women, 

drying  their  heads  of  hair 

as  they  stooped  and  shook  their  shoulders 

and  framed  their  faces  with  copper 

and  framed  their  eyes  with  dusk  or  chestnut. 

The  rain  has  been  good  to  women. 
If  the  rain  should  forget, 
if  the  rain  left  off  for  a  year — 
the  heads  of  women  would  wither, 
\    the  copper,  the  dusk  and  chestnuts,  go. 

They  have  painted  and  sung 
the  women  washing  their  hair — 
reckon  the  sun  and  rain  in,  too. 


136  Smoke  and  Steel 


PEACH  BLOSSOMS 

WHAT  cry  of  peach  blossoms 
let  loose  on  the  air  today 

I  heard  with  my  face  thrown 

in  the  pink-white  of  it  all? 
in  the  red  whisper  of  it  all? 


What  man  I  heard  saying: 
Christ,  these  are  beautiful 


And  Christ  and  Christ  was  in  his  mouth, 
over  these  peach  blossoms? 


Smoke  and  Steel  137 


HALF  MOON  IN  A  HIGH  WIND 

MONEY  is  nothing  now,  even  if  I  had  it, 

0  mooney  moon,  yellow  half  moon, 
Up  over  the  green  pines  and  gray  elms, 
Up  in  the  new  blue. 

Streel,  streel, 

White  lacey  mist  sheets  of  cloud, 
Streel  in  the  blowing  of  the  wind, 
Streel  over  the  blue-and-moon  sky, 
Yellow  gold  half  moon.     It  is  light 
On  the  snow;  it  is  dark  on  the  snow, 
Streel,  O  lacey  thin  sheets,  up  in  the  new  blue. 

Come  down,  stay  there,  move  on. 

1  want  you,  I  don't,  keep  all. 
There  is  no  song  to  your  singing. 
I  am  hit  deep,  you  drive  far, 

0  mooney  yellow  half  moon, 
Steady,  steady;  or  will  you  tip  over? 
Or  will  the  wind  and  the  streeling 
Thin  sheets  only  pass  and  move  on 
And  leave  you  alone  and  lovely  ? 

1  want  you,  I  don't,  come  down, 

Stay  there,  move  on. 
Money  is  nothing  now,  even  if  I  had  it. 


138  Smoke  and  Steel 


REMORSE 

THE  horse's  name  was  Remorse. 
There  were  people  said,  "  Gee,  what  a  nag !  " 
And  they  were  Edgar  Allan  Poe  bugs  and  so 
They  called  him  Remorse. 

When  he  was  a  gelding 
He  flashed  his  heels  to  other  ponies 
And  threw  dust  in  the  noses  of  other  ponies 
And  won  his  first  race  and  his  second 
And  another  and  another  and  hardly  ever 
Came  under  the  wire  behind  the  other  runners. 

And  so,  Remorse,  who  is  gone,  was  the  hero  of  a  play 
By  Henry  Blossom,  who  is  now  gone. 

What  is  there  to  a  monicker?    Call  me  anything. 
A  nut,  a  cheese,  something  that  the  cat  brought  in. 

Nick  me  with  any  old  name. 
Class  me  up  for  a  fish,  a  gorilla,  a  slant  head,  an  egg, 

a  ham. 
Only  .    .    .  slam  me  across  the  ears  sometimes  .    .   . 

and  hunt  for  a  white  star 
In  my  forehead  and  twist  the  bang  of  my  forelock 

around  it. 
Make  a  wish  for  me.     Maybe  I  will  light  out  like  a 

streak  of  wind. 


Smoke  and  Steel  139 


RIVER  MOONS 

The  double  moon,  one  on  the  high  back  drop  of  the 
west,  one  on  the  curve  of  the  river  face, 

The  sky  moon  of  fire  and  the  river  moon  of  water, 
I  am  taking  these  home  in  a  basket,  hung  on  an 
elbow,  such  a  teeny  weeny  elbow,  in  my  head. 

I  saw  them  last  night,  a  cradle  moon,  two  horns  of 
a  moon,  such  an  early  hopeful  moon,  such  a  child's 
moon  for  all  young  hearts  to  make  a  picture  of. 

The  river — I  remember  this  like  a  picture — the  river 
was  the  upper  twist  of  a  written  question  mark. 

I  know  now  it  takes  many  many  years  to  write  a  river, 
a  twist  of  water  asking  a  question. 

And  white  stars  moved  when  the  moon  moved,  and 
one  red  star  kept  burning,  and  the  Big  Dipper  was 
almost  overhead. 


140  Smoke  and  Steel 


SAND  SCRIBBLINGS 

THE  wind  stops,  the  wind  begins. 
The  wind  says  stop,  begin. 

A  sea  shovel  scrapes  the  sand  floor. 
The  shovel  changes,  the  floor  changes. 

The  sandpipers,  maybe  they  know. 
Maybe  a  three-pointed  foot  can  tell. 
Maybe  the  fog  moon  they  fly  to,  guesses. 

The  sandpipers  cheep  "  Here  "  and  get  away. 
Five  of  them  fly  and  keep  together  flying. 

Night  hair  of  some  sea  woman 
Curls  on  the  sand  when  the  sea  leaves 
The  salt  tide  without  a  good-by. 

Boxes  on  the  beach  are  empty. 
Shake  'em  and  the  nails  loosen. 
They  have  been  somewhere. 


Smoke  and  Steel  141 


HOW  YESTERDAY  LOOKED 

THE  high  horses  of  the  sea  broke  their  white  riders 
On  the  walls  that  held  and  counted  the  hours 
The  wind  lasted. 

Two  landbirds  looked  on  and  the  north  and  the  east 
Looked  on  and  the  wind  poured  cups  of  foam 
And  the  evening  began. 

The  old  men  in  the  shanties  looked  on  and  lit  their 
Pipes  and  the  young  men  spoke  of  the  girls 
For  a  wild  night  like  this. 

The  south  and  the  west  looked  on  and  the  moon  came 
When  the  wind  went  down  and  the  sea  was  sorry 
And  the  singing  slow. 

Ask  how  the  sunset  looked  between  the  wind  going 
Down  and  the  moon  coming  up  and  I  would  struggle 
To  tell  the  how  of  it. 

I  give  you  fire  here,  I  give  you  water,  I  give  you 
The  wind  that  blew  them  across  and  across, 
The  scooping,  mixing  wind. 


142  Smoke  and  Steel 


PAULA 

NOTHING  else  in  this  song — only  your  face. 

Nothing  else  here — only  your  drinking,  night-gray  eyes. 

The  pier  runs  into  the  lake  straight  as  a  rifle  barrel. 
I  stand  on  the  pier  and  sing  how  I  know  you  mornings. 
It  is  not  your  eyes,  your  face,  I  remember. 
It  is  not  your  dancing,  race-horse  feet. 
It  is  something  else  I  remember  you  for  on  the  pier 
mornings. 

Your  hands  are  sweeter  than  nut-brown  bread  when 

you  touch  me. 
Your  shoulder  brushes  my  arm — a  south-west  wind 

crosses  the  pier. 
I  forget  your  hands  and  your  shoulder  and  I  say  again  : 

Nothing  else  in  this  song — only  your  face. 
Nothing   else   here — only   your   drinking,    night-gray 
eyes. 


Smoke  and  Steel  143 


LAUGHING  BLUE  STEEL 

Two  fishes  swimming  in  the  sea, 

Two  birds  flying  in  the  air, 

Two  chisels  on  an  anvil — maybe. 

Beaten,  hammered,  laughing  blue  steel  to  each  other 

— maybe. 
Sure  I  would  rather  be  a  chisel  with  you 

than  a  fish. 
Sure  I  would  rather  be  a  chisel  with  you 

than  a  bird. 

Take  these  two  chisel-pals,  O  God. 
Take  'em  and  beat  'em,  hammer  'em, 

hear  'em  laugh. 


144  Smoke  and  Steel 


THEY  ASK  EACH  OTHER  WHERE  THEY 
CAME  FROM 

AM  I  the  river  your  white  birds  fly  over? 

Are  you  the  green  valley  my  silver  channels  roam? 

The  two  of  us  a  bowl  of  blue  sky  day  time 

and  a  bowl  of  red  stars  night  time? 

Who  picked  you 

out  of  the  first  great  whirl  of  nothings 

and  threw  you  here? 


Smoke  and  Steel  145 


HOW  MUCH? 

How  much  do  you  love  me,  a  million  bushels  ? 
Oh,  a  lot  more  than  that,  Oh,  a  lot  more. 

And  to-morrow  maybe  only  half  a  bushel? 
To-morrow  maybe  not  even  a  half  a  bushel. 

And  is  this  your  heart  arithmetic? 

This  is  the  way  the  wind  measures  the  weather. 


146  Smoke  and  Steel 


THROWBACKS 

SOMEWHERE  you  and  I  remember  we  came. 

Stairways  from  the  sea  and  our  heads  dripping. 

Ladders  of  dust  and  mud  and  our  hair  snarled. 

Rags  of  drenching  mist  and  our  hands  clawing,  climb- 
ing. 

You  and  I  that  snickered  in  the  crotches  and  corners, 
in  the  gab  of  our  first  talking. 

Red  dabs  of  dawn  summer  mornings  and  the  rain 
sliding  off  our  shoulders  summer  afternoons. 

Was  it  you  and  I  yelled  songs  and  songs  in  the  nights 
of  big  yellow  moons? 


Smoke  and  Steel  147 


WIND  SONG 

LONG  ago  I  learned  how  to  sleep, 

In  an  old  apple  orchard  where  the  wind  swept  by 

counting  its  money  and  throwing  it  away, 
In  a  wind-gaunt  orchard  where  the  limbs  forked  out 

and  listened  or  never  listened  at  all, 
In  a  passel  of  trees  where  the  branches  trapped  the 

wind  into  whistling,  "  Who,  who  are  you  ?  " 
I  slept  with  my  head  in  an  elbow  on  a  summer  after- 
noon and  there  I  took  a  sleep  lesson. 
There  I  went  away  saying:  I  know  why  they  sleep, 

I  know  how  they  trap  the  tricky  winds. 
Long  ago  I  learned  how  to  listen  to  the  singing  wind 

and  how  to  forget  and  how  to  hear  the  deep 

whine, 
Slapping  and  lapsing  under  the  day  blue  and  the  night 

stars : 

Who,  who  are  you? 

Who  can  ever  forget 
listening  to  the  wind  go  by 
counting  its  money 
and  throwing  it  away? 


148  Smoke  and  Steel 


THREE  SPRING  NOTATIONS  ON  BIPEDS 


1 


THE  down  drop  of  the  blackbird, 
The  wing  catch  of  arrested  flight, 
The  stop  midway  and  then  off : 

off  for  triangles,  circles,  loops 

of  new  hieroglyphs — 
This  is  April's  way :  a  woman : 
"  O  yes,  I'm  here  again  and  your  heart 

knows  I  was  coming." 


White  pigeons  rush  at  the  sun, 

A  marathon  of  wing  feats  is  on : 

"  Who  most  loves  danger  ?    Who  most  loves 

wings  ?    Who  somersaults  for  God's  sake 

in  the  name  of  wing  power 

in  the  sun  and  blue 

on  an  April  Thursday." 
So  ten  winged  heads,  ten  winged  feet, 

race  their  white  forms  over  Elmhurst. 
They  go  fast:  once  the  ten  together  were 

a  feather  of  foam  bubble,  a  chrysanthemum 

vhirl  speaking  to  silver  and  azure. 


Three  Spring  Notations  on  Bipeds     149 


The  child  is  on  my  shoulders. 

In  the  prairie  moonlight  the  child's  legs 

hang  over  my  shoulders. 
She  sits  on  my  neck  and  I  hear  her  calling 

me  a  good  horse. 
She  slides  down — and  into  the  moon  silver  of 

a  prairie  stream 
She  throws  a  stone  and  laughs  at  the  clug-clug. 


150  Smoke  and  Steel 


SANDHILL  PEOPLE 

I  TOOK  away  three  pictures. 

One  was  a  white  gull  forming  a  half-mile  arch  from 
the  pines  toward  Waukegan. 

One  was  a  whistle  in  the  little  sandhills,  a  bird  crying 
either  to  the  sunset  gone  or  the  dusk  come. 

One  was  three  spotted  waterbirds,  zigzagging,  cutting 
scrolls  and  jags,  writing  a  bird  Sanscrit  of  wing 
points,  half  over  the  sand,  half  over  the  water, 
a  half-love  for  the  sea,  a  half-love  for  the  land. 

I  took  away  three  thoughts. 

One  was  a  thing  my  people  call  "  love,"  a  shut-in  river 
hunting  the  sea,  breaking  white  falls  between  tall 
clefs  of  hill  country. 

One  was  a  thing  my  people  call  "  silence,"  the  wind 
running  over  the  butter  faced  sand-flowers,  run- 
ning over  the  sea,  and  never  heard  of  again. 

One  was  a  thing  my  people  call  "  death,"  neither  a 
whistle  in  the  little  sandhills,  nor  a  bird  Sanscrit 
of  wing  points,  yet  a  coat  all  the  stars  and  seas 
have  worn,  yet  a  face  the  beach  wears  between 
sunset  and  dusk. 


Smoke  and  Steel 


FAR  ROCKAWAY  NIGHT  TILL  MORNING 

WHAT  can  we  say  of  the  night  ? 
The  fog  night,  the  moon  night, 

the  fog  moon  night  last  night? 

There  swept  out  of  the  sea  a  song. 
There  swept  out  of  the  sea — 
torn  white  plungers. 
There  came  on  the  coast  wind  drive 
In  the  spit  of  a  driven  spray, 
On  the  boom  of  foam  and  rollers, 
The  cry  of  midnight  to  morning: 

Hoi-a-loa. 

Hoi-a-loa. 

Hoi-a-loa. 

Who  has  loved  the  night  more  than  I  have? 
Who  has  loved  the  fog  moon  night  last  night 
more  than  I  have? 

Out  of  the  sea  that  song 

— can  I  ever  forget  it? 
Out  of  the  sea  those  plungers 

— can  I  remember  anything  else? 
Out  of  the  midnight  morning  cry :  Hoi-a-loa : 

— how  can  I  hunt  any  other  songs  now  ? 


152  Smoke  and  Steel 


HUMMINGBIRD  WOMAN 

WHY  should  I  be  wondering 

How  you  would  look  in  black  velvet  and  yellow  ? 

in  orange  and  green? 

I  who  cannot  remember  whether  it  was  a  dash  of  blue 
Or  a  whirr  of  red  under  your  willow  throat — 
Why  do  I  wonder  how  you  would  look  in  humming- 
bird feathers? 


Smoke  and  Steel  153 


BUCKWHEAT 

1 

THERE  was  a  late  autumn  cricket, 

And  two  smoldering  mountain  sunsets 

Under  the  valley  roads  of  her  eyes. 

There  was  a  late  autumn  cricket, 

A  hangover  of  summer  song, 

Scraping  a  tune 

Of  the  late  night  clocks  of  summer, 

In  the  late  winter  night  fireglow, 

This  in  a  circle  of  black  velvet  at  her  neck. 


In  pansy  eyes  a  flash,  a  thin  rim  of  white  light,  a 
beach  bonfire  ten  miles  across  dunes,  a  speck  of 
a  fool  star  in  night's  half  circle  of  velvet. 

In  the  corner  of  the  left  arm  a  dimple,  a  mole,  a 
forget-me-not,  and  it  fluttered  a  hummingbird 
wing,  a  blur  in  the  honey-red  clover,  in  the  honey- 
white  buckwheat. 


Smoke  and  Steel 


BLUE  RIDGE 

BORN  a  million  years  ago  you  stay  here  a  million 
years  .  .  .  watching  the  women  come  and  live 
and  be  laid  away  .  .  .  you  and  they  thin-gray 
thin-dusk  lovely. 

So  it  goes :  either  the  early  morning  lights  are  lovely 
or  the  early  morning  star. 

I  am  glad  I  have  seen  racehorses,  women,  mountains. 


Smoke  and  Steel 


VALLEY  SONG 

THE  sunset  swept 

To  the  valley's  west,  you  remember. 

The  frost  was  on. 
A  star  burnt  blue. 
We  were  warm,  you  remember, 
And  counted  the  rings  on  a  moon. 

The  sunset  swept 
To  the  valley's  west 
And  was  gone  in  a  big  dark  door  of  stars. 


156  Smoke  and  Steel 


MIST  FORMS 

THE  sheets  of  night  mist  travel  a  long  valley. 

I  know  why  you  came  at  sundown  in  a  scarf  mist. 

What  was  it  we  touched  asking  nothing  and  asking  all  ? 
How  many  times  can  death  come  and  pay  back  what 
we  saw? 

In  the  oath  of  the  sod,  the  lips  that  swore, 
In  the  oath  of  night  mist,  nothing  and  all, 
A  riddle  is  here  no  man  tells,  no  woman. 


Smoke  and  Steel  157 


PIGEON 

THE  flutter  of  blue  pigeon's  wings 

Under  a  river  bridge 

Hunting  a  clean  dry  arch, 

A  corner  for  a  sleep — 

This  flutters  here  in  a  woman's  hand. 

A  singing  sleep  cry, 

A  drunken  poignant  two  lines  of  song, 

Somebody  looking  clean  into  yesterday 

And  remembering,  or  looking  clean  into 

To-morrow,  and  reading, — 

This  sings  here  as  a  woman's  sleep  cry  sings. 

Pigeon  friend  of  mine, 
Fly  on,  sing  on. 


158  Smoke  and  Steel 


CHASERS 

THE  sea  at  its  worst  drives  a  white  foam  up, 

The  same  sea  sometimes  so  easy  and  rocking  with 

green  mirrors. 

So  you  were  there  when  the  white  foam  was  up 
And  the  salt  spatter  and  the  rack  and  the  dulse — 
You  were  done  fingering  these,  and  high,  higher  and 

higher 
Your  feet  went  and  it  was  your  voice  went,  "  Hai, 

hai,  hai," 
Up  where  the  rocks  let  nothing  live  and  the  grass  was 

gone, 

Not  even  a  hank  nor  a  wisp  of  sea  moss  hoping. 
Here  your  feet  and  your  same  singing,  "  Hai,  hai,  hai." 

Was  there  anything  else  to  answer  than,  "  Hai,  hai, 

hai"? 
Did  I  go  up  those  same  crags  yesterday  and  the  day 

before 
Scrumng  my   shoe  leather  and  scraping  the  tough 

gnomic  stuff 

Of  stones  woven  on  a  cold  criss-cross  so  long  ago  ? 
Have  I  not  sat  there  .  .  .  watching  the  white  foam  up, 
The  hoarse  white  lines  coming  to  curve,  foam,  slip 

back? 
Didn't  I  learn  then  how  the  call  comes,  "  Hai,  hai, 

hai"? 


Smoke  and  Steel  159 


HORSE  FIDDLE 

FIRST  I  would  like  to  write  for  you  a  poem  to  be 

shouted  in  the  teeth  of  a  strong  wind. 
Next  I  would  like  to  write  one  for  you  to  sit  on  a 
hill  and  read  down  the  river  valley  on  a  late 
summer  afternoon,  reading  it  in  less  than  a  whis- 
per to  Jack  on  his  soft  wire  legs  learning  to  stand 
up  and  preach,  Jack-in-the-pulpit. 
As  many  poems  as  I  have  written  to  the  moon  and 
the  streaming  of  the  moon  spinners  of  light,  so 
many  of  the  summer  moon  and  the  winter  moon  I 
would  like  to  shoot  along  to  your  ears  for  nothing, 
for  a  laugh,  a  song, 

for  nothing  at  all, 
for  one  look  from  you, 
for  your  face  turned  away 
and  your  voice  in  one  clutch 
half  way  between  a  tree  wind  moan 
and  a  night-bird  sob. 

Believe  nothing  of  it  all,  pay  me  nothing,  open  your 
window  for  the  other  singers  and  keep  it  shut 
for  me. 
The  road  I  am  on  is  a  long  road  and  I  can  go  hungry 

again  like  I  have  gone  hungry  before. 
What  else  have  I  done  nearly  all  my  life  than  go 
hungry  and  go  on  singing? 


160  Horse  Fiddle 

Leave  me  with  the  hoot  owl. 

I  have  slept  in  a  blanket  listening. 

He  learned  it,  he  must  have  learned  it 

From  two  moons,  the  summer  moon, 

And  the  winter  moon 

And  the  streaming  of  the  moon  spinners  of  light. 


Smoke  and  Steel  161 


TIMBER  WINGS 

THERE  was  a  wild  pigeon  came  often  to  Hinkley's 

timber. 
Gray  wings  that  wrote  their  loops  and  triangles  on 

the  walnuts  and  the  hazel. 

There  was  a  wild  pigeon. 

There  was  a  summer  came  year  by  year  to  Hinkley's 

timber. 
Rainy  months  and  sunny  and  pigeons  calling  and  one 

pigeon  best  of  all  who  came. 
There  was  a  summer. 

It  is  so  long  ago  I  saw  this  wild  pigeon  and  listened. 
It  is  so  long  ago  I  heard  the  summer  song  of  the 
pigeon  who  told  me  why  night  comes,  why  death 
and  stars  come,  why  the  whippoorwill  remembers 
three  notes  only  and  always. 

It  is  so  long  ago ;  it  is  like  now  and  today ;  the  gray 
wing  pigeon's  way  of  telling  it  all,  telling  it  to  the 
walnuts  and  hazel,  telling  it  to  me. 
So  there  is  memory. 

So  there  is  a  pigeon,  a  summer,  a  gray  wing 
beating  my  shoulder. 


162  Smoke  and  Steel 


NIGHT  STUFF 

LISTEN  a  while,  the  moon  is  a  lovely  woman,  a  lonely 
woman,  lost  in  a  silver  dress,  lost  in  a  circus 
rider's  silver  dress. 

Listen  a  while,  the  lake  by  night  is  a  lonely  woman,  a 
lovely  woman,  circled  with  birches  and  pines  mix- 
ing their  green  and  white  among  stars  shattered 
in  spray  clear  nights. 

I  know  the  moon  and  the  lake  have  twisted  the  roots 
under  my  heart  the  same  as  a  lonely  woman,  a 
lovely  woman,  in  a  silver  dress,  in  a  circus  rider's 
silver  dress. 


Smoke  and  Steel  163 


SPANISH 

FASTEN  black  eyes  on  me. 

I  ask  nothing  of  you  under  the  peach  trees, 

Fasten  your  black  eyes  in  my  gray 

with  the  spear  of  a  storm. 
The  air  under  the  peach  blossoms  is  a  haze  of  pink. 


164  Smoke  and  Steel 


SHAG-BARK  HICKORY 

IN  the  moonlight  under  a  shag-bark  hickory  tree 
Watching  the  yellow  shadows  melt  in  hoof-pools, 
Listening  to  the  yes  and  the  no  of  a  woman's  hands, 
I  kept  my  guess  why  the  night  was  glad. 

The  night  was  lit  with  a  woman's  eyes. 

The  night  was  crossed  with  a  woman's  hands, 

The  night  kept  humming  an  undersong. 


Smoke  and  Steel  165 


THE  SOUTH  WIND  SAYS  SO 

IF  the  oriole  calls  like  last  year 

when  the  south  wind  sings  in  the  oats, 

if  the  leaves  climb  and  climb  on  a  bean  pole 

saying  over  a  song  learnt  from  the  south  wind, 

if  the  crickets  send  up  the  same  old  lessons 

found  when  the  south  wind  keeps  on  coming, 

we  will  get  by,  we  will  keep  on  coming, 

we  will  get  by,  we  will  come  along, 

we  will  fix  our  hearts  over, 

the  south  wind  says  so. 


ACCOMPLISHED  FACTS 


Smoke  and  Steel  169 


ACCOMPLISHED  FACTS 

EVERY  year  Emily  Dickinson  sent  one  friend 
the  first  arbutus  bud  in  her  garden. 

In  a  last  will  and  testament  Andrew  Jackson 
remembered  a  friend  with  the  gift  of  George 
Washington's  pocket  spy-glass. 

Napoleon  too,  in  a  last  testament,  mentioned  a  silver 
watch  taken  from  the  bedroom  of  Frederick  the  Great, 
and  passed  along  this  trophy  to  a  particular  friend. 

O.  Henry  took  a  blood  carnation  from  his  coat  lapel 
and  handed  it  to  a  country  girl  starting  work  in  a 
bean  bazaar,  and  scribbled :  "  Peach  blossoms  may  or 
may  not  stay  pink  in  city  dust." 

So  it  goes.     Some  things  we  buy,  some  not. 
Torn  Jefferson  was  proud  of  his  radishes,  and  Abe 
Lincoln  blacked  his  own  boots,  and  Bismarck  called 
Berlin  a  wilderness  of  brick  and  newspapers. 

So  it  goes.    There  are  accomplished  facts. 
Ride,  ride,  ride  on  in  the  great  new  blimps — 
Cross  unheard-of  oceans,  circle  the  planet. 
When  you  come  back  we  may  sit  by  five  hollyhocks. 
We  might  listen  to  boys  fighting  for  marbles. 
The  grasshopper  will  look  good  to  us. 

So  it  goes  .  .  . 


170  Smoke  and  Steel 


GRIEG  BEING  DEAD 

GRIEG  being  dead  we  may  speak  of  him  and  his  art. 
Grieg  being  dead  we  can  talk  about  whether  he  was 

any  good  or  not. 
Grieg  being  with  Ibsen,  Bjornson,  Lief  Ericson  and 

the  rest, 
Grieg  being  dead  does  not  care  a  hell's  hoot  what 

we  say. 

Morning,  Spring,  Anitra's  Dance, 

He  dreams  them  at  the  doors  of  new  stars. 


Smoke  and  Steel  171 


CHORDS 

IN  the  morning,  a  Sunday  morning,  shadows  of  sea 
and  adumbrants  of  rock  in  her  eyes  .  .  .  horse- 
back in  leather  boots  and  leather  gauntlets  by 
the  sea. 

In  the  evening,  a  Sunday  evening,  a  rope  of  pearls 
on  her  white  shoulders  .  .  .  and  a  speaking, 
brooding  black  velvet,  relapsing  to  the  voiceless 
.  .  .  battering  Russian  marches  on  a  piano  .  .  . 
drive  of  blizzards  across  Nebraska. 

Yes,  riding  horseback  on  hills  by  the  sea  .  .  .  sitting 
at  the  ivory  keys  in  black  velvet,  a  rope  of  pearls 
on  white  shoulders. 


172  Smoke  and  Steel 


BOGHEADS 

AMONG  the  grassroots 
In  the  moonlight,  who  comes  circling, 

red  tongues  and  high  noses? 
Is  one  of  'em  Buck  and  one  of  'em 

White  Fang? 

In  the  moonlight,  who  are  they,  cross-legged, 

telling  their  stories  over  and  over? 
Is  one  of  'em  Martin  Eden  and  one  of  'em  Larsen 

the  Wolf? 

Let  an  epitaph  read: 

He  loved  the  straight  eyes  of  dogs 
and  the  strong  heads  of  men. 


Smoke  and  Steel  173 


TRINITY  PEACE 

THE  grave  of  Alexander  Hamilton  is  in  Trinity  yard 
at  the  end  of  Wall  Street. 

The  grave  of  Robert  Fulton  likewise  is  in  Trinity 
yard  where  Wall  Street  stops. 

And  in  this  yard  stenogs,  bundle  boys,  scrubwomen, 
sit  on  the  tombstones,  and  walk  on  the  grass  of 
graves,  speaking  of  war  and  weather,  of  babies, 
wages  and  love. 

An  iron  picket  fence  .  .  .  and  streaming  thousands 
along  Broadway  sidewalks  .  .  .  straw  hats, 
faces,  legs  ...  a  singing,  talking,  hustling  river 
.  .  .  down  the  great  street  that  ends  with  a  Sea. 

.    .    .  easy  is  the  sleep  of  Alexander  Hamilton. 
.    .    .  easy  is  the  sleep  of  Robert  Fulton. 
.   .    .  easy  are  the  great  governments  and  the  great 
steamboats. 


174  Smoke  and  Steel 

PORTRAIT 
(For  S.  A.} 

To  write  one  book  in  five  years 

or  five  books  in  one  year, 

to  be  the  painter  and  the  thing  painted, 

.   .   .  where  are  we,  bo? 

Wait — get  his  number. 

The  barber  shop  handling  is  here 

and  the  tweeds,  the  cheviot,  the  Scotch  Mist, 

and  the  flame  orange  scarf. 

Yet  there  is  more — he  sleeps  under  bridges 
with  lonely  crazy  men;  he  sits  in  country 
jails  with  bootleggers;  he  adopts  the  children 
of  broken-down  burlesque  actresses ;  he  has 
cried  a  heart  of  tears  for  Windy  MacPherson's 
father ;  he  pencils  wrists  of  lonely  women. 

Can  a  man  sit  at  a  desk  in  a  skyscraper  in  Chicago 
and  be  a  harnessmaker  in  a  corn  town  in  Iowa 
and  feel  the  tall  grass  coming  up  in  June 
and  the  ache  of  the  cottonwood  trees 
singing  with  the  prairie  wind? 


Smoke  and  Steel  175 


POTOMAC  RIVER  MIST 

ALL  the  policemen,  saloonkeepers  and  efficiency  ex- 
perts in  Toledo  knew  Bern  Dailey;  secretary  ten 
years  when  Whitlock  was  mayor. 

Pickpockets,  yeggs,  three  card  men,  he  knew  them  all 
and  how  they  flit  from  zone  to  zone,  birds  of 
wind  and  weather,  singers,  fighters,  scavengers. 

The  Washington  monument  pointed  to  a  new  moon 
for  us  and  a  gang  from  over  the  river  sang  rag- 
time to  a  ukelele. 

The  river  mist  marched  up  and  down  the  Potomac, 
we  hunted  the  fog-swept  Lincoln  Memorial,  white 
as  a  blond  woman's  arm. 

We  circled  the  city  of  Washington  and  came  back  home 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  passing  a  sign :  House 
Where  Abraham  Lincoln  Died,  Admission  25 
Cents. 

I  got  a  letter  from  him  in  Sweden  and  I  sent  him  a 
postcard  from  Norway  .  .  every  newspaper  from 
America  ran  news  of  "  the  flu." 

The  path  of  a  night  fog  swept  up  the  river  to  the 
Lincoln  Memorial  when  I  saw  it  again  and  alone 
at  a  winter's  end,  the  marble  in  the  mist  white 
as  a  blond  woman's  arm. 


176  Smoke  and  Steel 


JACK  LONDON   AND  O.   HENRY 

BOTH  were  jailbirds  ;  no  speechmakers  at  all ; 
speaking  best  with  one  foot  on  a  brass  rail ; 
a  beer  glass  in  the  left  hand  and  the  right 
hand  employed  for  gestures. 

And  both  were  lights  snuffed  out  ...  no  warning 
...  no  lingering: 

Who  knew  the  hearts  of  these  boozefighters  ? 


Smoke  and  Steel  177 


HIS  OWN  FACE  HIDDEN 

HOKUSAI'S  portrait  of  himself 

Tells  what  his  hat  was  like 

And  his  arms  and  legs.    The  only  faces 

Are  a  river  and  a  mountain 

And  two  laughing  farmers. 

The  smile  of  Hokusai 
is  under  his  hat. 


178  Smoke  and  Steel 


CUPS  OF  COFFEE 

THE  haggard  woman  with  a  hacking  cough  and  a 
deathless  love  whispers  of  white  flowers  ...  in 
your  poem  you  pour  like  a  cup  of  coffee,  Gabriel. 

The  slim  girl  whose  voice  was  lost  in  the  waves  of 
flesh  piled  on  her  bones  .  .  .  and  the  woman  who 
sold  to  many  men  and  saw  her  breasts  shrivel 
...  in  two  poems  you  pour  these  like  a  cup  of 
coffee,  Francois. 

The  woman  whose  lips  are  a  thread  of  scarlet,  the 
woman  whose  feet  take  hold  on  hell,  the  woman 
who  turned  to  a  memorial  of  salt  looking  at  the 
lights  of  a  forgotten  city  ...  in  ycur  affidavits, 
ancient  Jews,  you  pour  these  like  cups  of  coffee. 

The  woman  who  took  men  as  snakes  take  rabbits,  a 
rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair,  she  whose 
eyes  called  men  to  sea  dreams  and  shark's  teeth 
.  .  .  in  a  poem  you  pour  this  like  a  cup  of  coffee, 
Kip. 

Marching  to  the  footlights  in  night  robes  with  spots 
of  blood,  marching  in  white  sheets  muffling  the 
faces,  marching  with  heads  in  the  air  they  come 
back  and  cough  and  cry  and  sneer :  .  .  .in  your 
poems,  men,  you  pour  these  like  cups  of  coffee. 


PASSPORTS 


Smoke  and  Steel  181 


SMOKE  ROSE  GOLD 

THE  dome  of  the  capital  looks  to  the  Potomac  river. 

Out  of  haze  over  the  sunset, 

Out  of  a  smoke  rose  gold: 
One  star  shines  over  the  sunset. 
Night  takes  the  dome  and  the  river,  the  sun  and  the 

smoke  rose  gold, 

The  haze  changes  from  sunset  to  star. 
The  pour  of  a  thin  silver  struggles  against  the  dark. 
A  star  might  call :  It's  a  long  way  across. 


182  Smoke  and  Steel 


TANGIBLES 

(Washington,  August,  1918) 

I  HAVE  seen  this  city  in  the  day  and  the  sun. 
I  have  seen  this  city  in  the  night  and  the  moon. 
And  in  the  night  and  the  moon  I  have  seen  a  thing  this 
city  gave  me  nothing  of  in  the  day  and  the  sun. 

The  float  of  the  dome  in  the  day  and  the  sun  is  one 

thing. 
The  float  of  the  dome  in  the  night  and  the  moon  is 

another  thing. 
In  the  night  and  the  moon  the  float  of  the  dome  is  a 

dream-whisper,  a  croon  of  a  hope :  "  Not  today, 

child,  not  today,  lover;  maybe  tomorrow,  child, 

maybe  tomorrow,  lover." 

Can  a  dome  of  iron  dream  deeper  than  living  men? 

Can  the  float  of  a  shape  hovering  among  tree-tops — 
can  this  speak  an  oratory  sad,  singing  and  red 
beyond  the  speech  of  the  living  men? 

A  mother  of  men,  a  sister,  a  lover,  a  woman  past  the 

dreams  of  the  living — 
Does  she  go  sad,  singing  and  red  out  of  the  float  of 

this  dome? 

There  is  ...  something  .  .  .  here  .  .  .  men  die  for. 


Smoke  and  Steel  183 


NIGHT  MOVEMENT— NEW  YORK 

IN  the  night,  when  the  sea-winds  take  the  city  in  their 

arms, 
And  cool  the  loud  streets  that  kept  their  dust  noon  and 

afternoon ; 
In  the  night,  when  the  sea-birds  call  to  the  lights  of 

the  city, 

The  lights  that  cut  on  the  skyline  their  name  of  a  city ; 
In  the  night,  when  the  trains  and  wagons  start  from 

a  long  way  off 
For  the  city  where  the  people  ask  bread  and  want 

letters  ; 

In  the  night  the  city  lives  too — the  day  is  not  all. 
In  the  night  there  are  dancers  dancing  and  singers 

singing, 

And  the  sailors  and  soldiers  look  for  numbers  on  doors. 
In  the  night  the  sea-winds  take  the  city  in  their  arms. 


184  Smoke  and  Steel 


NORTH  ATLANTIC 

WHEN  the  sea  is  everywhere 
from  horizon  to  horizon  .    . 

when  the  salt  and  blue 

fill  a  circle  of  horizons  .   . 
I  swear  again  how  I  know 
the  sea  is  older  than  anything  else 
and  the  sea  younger  than  anything  else. 

My  first  father  was  a  landsman. 
My  tenth  father  was  a  sea-lover, 

a  gipsy  sea-boy,  a  singer  of  chanties. 

(Oh  Blow  the  Man  Down!) 

The  sea  is  always  the  same : 
and  yet  the  sea  always  changes. 

The  sea  gives  all, 

and  yet  the  sea  keeps  something  back. 

The  sea  takes  without  asking. 

The  sea  is  a  worker,  a  thief  and  a  loafer. 

Why  does  the  sea  let  go  so  slow? 

Or  never  let  go  at  all? 

The  sea  always  the  same 

day  after  day, 

the  sea  always  the  same 


North  Atlantic  185 

night  after  night, 

fog  on  fog  and  never  a  star, 

wind  on  wind  and  running  white  sheets, 

bird  on  bird  always  a  sea-bird — 

so  the  days  get  lost: 

it  is  neither  Saturday  nor  Monday, 

it  is  any  day  or  no  day, 

it  is  a  year,  ten  years. 

Fog  on  fog  and  never  a  star, 
what  is  a  man,  a  child,  a  woman, 
to  the  green  and  grinding  sea? 
The  ropes  and  boards  squeak  and  groan. 

On  the  land  they  know  a  child  they  have  named  Today. 

On  the  sea  they  know  three  children  they  have  named : 

Yesterday,  Today,  To-morrow. 

I  made  a  song  to  a  woman : — it  ran : 
I  have  wanted  you. 
I  have  called  to  you 
on  a  day  I  counted  a  thousand  years. 

In  the  deep  of  a  sea-blue  noon 

many  women  run  in  a  man's  head, 

phantom  women  leaping  from  a  man's  forehead 

.   .  to  the  railings  .  .  .  into  the  sea  ...  to  the 

sea  rim  .   .  . 

.  .  a  man's  mother  ...  a  man's  wife  .  .  .  other 

women  .   .   . 
I  asked  a  sure-footed  sailor  how  and  he  said : 

I  have  known  many  women  but  there  is  only  one  sea. 


1 86  North  Atlantic 

I  saw  the  North  Star  once 

and  our  old  friend,  The  Big  Dipper, 

only  the  sea  between  us : 

"  Take  away  the  sea 

and  I  lift  The  Dipper, 

swing  the  handle  of  it, 

drink  from  the  brim  of  it." 


I  saw  the  North  Star  one  night 

and  five  new  stars  for  me  in  the  rigging  ropes, 

and  seven  old  stars  in  the  cross  of  the  wireless 

plunging  by  night, 

plowing  by  night — 
Five  new  cool  stars,  seven  old  warm  stars. 


I  have  been  let  down  in  a  thousand  graves 

by  my  kinfolk. 
I  have  been  left  alone  with  the  sea  and  the  sea's 

wife,  the  wind,  for  my  last  friends 
And  my  kinfolk  never  knew  anything  about  it  at  all. 

Salt  from  an  old  work  of  eating  our  graveclothes  is 

here. 

The  sea-kin  of  my  thousand  graves, 
The  sea  and  the  sea's  wife,  the  wind, 
They  are  all  here  to-night 

between  the  circle  of  horizons, 
between  the  cross  of  the  wireless 
and  the  seven  old  warm  stars. 


North  Atlantic  187 

Out  of  a  thousand  sea-holes  I  came  yesterday. 
Out  of  a  thousand  sea-holes  I  come  to-morrow. 


I  am  kin  of  the  changer. 

I  am  a  son  of  the  sea 

and  the  sea's  wife,  the  wind. 


1 88  Smoke  and  Steel 


FOG  PORTRAIT 

RINGS  of  iron  gray  smoke;  a  woman's  steel  face  .  .  . 
looking  .  .  .  looking. 

Funnels  of  an  ocean  liner  negotiating  a  fog  night; 
pouring  a  taffy  mass  down  the  wind;  layers  of 
soot  on  the  top  deck;  a  taffrail  .  .  .  and  a 
woman's  steel  face  .  .  .  looking  .  .  .  looking. 

Cliffs  challenge  humped ;  sudden  arcs  form  on  a  gull's 
wing  in  the  storm's  vortex ;  miles  of  white  horses 
plow  through  a  stony  beach ;  stars,  clear  sky,  and 
everywhere  free  climbers  calling ;  and  a  woman's 
steel  face  .  .  .  looking  .  .  .  looking  .  .  . 


Smoke  and  Steel 


FLYING  FISH 

I  HAVE  lived  in  many  half-worlds  myself  .  .  .  and 
so  I  know  you. 

I  leaned  at  a  deck  rail  watching  a  monotonous  sea,  the 
same  circling  birds  and  the  same  plunge  of  fur- 
rows carved  by  the  plowing  keel. 

I  leaned  so  ...  and  you  fluttered  struggling  between 
two  waves  in  the  air  now  .  .  .  and  then  under 
the  water  and  out  again  ...  a  fish  ...  a  bird 
.  .  .  a  fin  thing  ...  a  wing  thing. 

Child  of  water,  child  of  air,  fin  thing  and  wing  thing 
...  I  have  lived  in  many  half  worlds  myself  .  .  . 
and  so  I  know  you. 


190  Smoke  and  Steel 


HOME  THOUGHTS 

THE  sea  rocks  have  a  green  moss. 
The  pine  rocks  have  red  berries. 
I  have  memories  of  you. 


Speak  to  me  of  how  you  miss  me. 
Tell  me  the  hours  go  long  and  slow. 

Speak  to  me  of  the  drag  on  your  heart, 
The  iron  drag  of  the  long  days. 

I  know  hours  empty  as  a  beggar's  tin  cup  on  a  rainy 
day,  empty  as  a  soldier's  sleeve  with  an  arm  lost. 

Speak  to  me  .   .  . 


Smoke  and  Steel  191 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PALACE 

LET  us  go  out  of  the  fog,  John,  out  of  the  filmy  per- 
sistent drizzle  on  the  streets  of  Stockholm,  let 
us  put  down  the  collars  of  our  raincoats,  take 
off  our  hats  and  sit  in  the  newspaper  office. 

Let  us  sit  among  the  telegrams — clickety-click — the 
kaiser's  crown  goes  into  the  gutter  and  the  Hohen- 
zollern  throne  of  a  thousand  years  falls  to  pieces 
a  one-hoss  shay. 

It  is  a  fog  night  out  and  the  umbrellas  are  up  and 
the  collars  of  the  raincoats — and  all  the  steam- 
boats up  and  down  the  Baltic  sea  have  their  lights 
out  and  the  wheelsmen  sober. 

Here  the  telegrams  come — one  king  goes  and  another 
— butter  is  costly:  there  is  no  butter  to  buy  for 
our  bread  in  Stockholm — and  a  little  patty  of 
butter  costs  more  than  all  the  crowns  of  Germany. 

Let  us  go  out  in  the  fog,  John,  let  us  roll  up  our 
raincoat  collars  and  go  on  the  streets  where  men 
are  sneering  at  the  kings. 


192  Smoke  and  Steel 


TWO  ITEMS 

STRONG  rocks  hold  up  the  riksdag  bridge  .  .  .  always 
strong  river  waters  shoving  their  shoulders  against 
them  .  .  . 

In  the  riksdag  to-night  three  hundred  men  are  talking 
to  each  other  about  more  potatoes  and  bread  for 
the  Swedish  people  to  eat  this  winter. 

In  a  boat  among  calm  waters  next  to  the  running 
waters  a  fisherman  sits  in  the  dark  and  I,  leaning 
at  a  parapet,  see  him  lift  a  net  and  let  it  down 
...  he  waits  ...  the  waters  run  ...  the 
riksdag  talks  ...  he  lifts  the  net  and  lets  it 
down  .  .  . 

Stars  lost  in  the  sky  ten  days  of  drizzle  spread  over 
the  sky  saying  yes-yes. 


Every  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  fifteen  apple  women 
who  have  sold  their  apples  in  Christiania  meet 
at  a  coffee  house  and  gab. 

Every  morning  at  nine  o'clock  a  girl  wipes  the  win- 
dows of  a  hotel  across  the  street  from  the  post- 
office  in  Stockholm. 

I  have  pledged  them  when  I  go  to  California  next 
summer  and  see  the  orange  groves  splattered  with 
yellow  balls 

I  shall  remember  other  people  half  way  round  the 
world. 


Smoke  and  Steel  193 


STREETS   TOO  OLD 

I  WALKED  among  the  streets  of  an  old  city  and  the 
streets  were  lean  as  the  throats  of  hard  seafish 
soaked  in  salt  and  kept  in  barrels  many  years. 

How  old,  how  old,  how  old,  we  are : — the  walls  went 
on  saying,  street  walls  leaning  toward  each  other 
like  old  women  of  the  people,  like  old  midwives 
tired  and  only  doing  what  must  be  done. 

The  greatest  the  city  could  offer  me,  a  stranger,  was 
statues  of  the  kings,  on  all  corners  bronzes  of 
kings — ancient  bearded  kings  who  wrote  books 
and  spoke  of  God's  love  for  all  people — and  young 
kings  who  took  forth  armies  out  across  the  fron- 
tiers splitting  the  heads  of  their  opponents  and 
enlarging  their  kingdoms. 

Strangest  of  all  to  me,  a  stranger  in  this  old  city,  was 
the  murmur  always  whistling  on  the  winds  twist- 
ing out  of  the  armpits  and  fingertips  of  the  kings 
in  bronze: — Is  there  no  loosening?  Is  this  for 
always  ? 

In  an  early  snowflurry  one  cried: — Pull  me  down 
where  the  tired  old  midwives  no  longer  look  at 
me,  throw  the  bronze  of  me  to  a  fierce  fire  and 
make  me  into  neckchains  for  dancing  children. 


194  Smoke  and  Steel 


SAVOIR  FAIRE 

CAST  a  bronze  of  my  head  and  legs  and  put  them  on 
the  king's  street. 

Set  the  cast  of  me  here  alongside  Carl  XII,  making 
two  Carls  for  the  Swedish  people  and  the  utlanders 
to  look  at  between  the  palace  and  the  Grand 
Hotel. 

The  summer  sun  will  shine  on  both  the  Carls,  and 
November  drizzles  wrap  the  two,  one  in  tall 
leather  boots,  one  in  wool  leggins. 

Also  I  place  it  in  the  record:  the  Swedish  people  may 
name  boats  after  me  or  change  the  name  of  a 
long  street  and  give  it  one  of  my  nicknames. 

The  old  men  who  beset  the  soil  of  Sweden  and  own 
the  titles  to  the  land — the  old  men  who  enjoy  a 
silken  shimmer  to  their  chin  whiskers  when  they 
promenade  the  streets  named  after  old  kings — 
if  they  forget  me — the  old  men  whose  varicose 
veins  stand  more  and  more  blue  on  the  calves  of 
their  legs  when  they  take  their  morning  baths 
attended  by  old  women  born  to  the  bath  service 
of  old  men  and  young — if  these  old  men  say 
another  King  Carl  should  have  a  bronze  on  the 
king's  street  rather  than  a  Fool  Carl — 

Then  I  would  hurl  them  only  another  fool's  laugh — 


S avoir  Faire  195 

I  would  remember  last  Sunday  when  I  stood  on  a 
Jutland  of  fire-born  red  granite  watching  the 
drop  of  the  sun  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  and 
the  full  moon  shining  over  Stockholm  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon. 

If  the  young  men  will  read  five  lines  of  one  of  my 
poems  I  will  let  the  kings  have  all  the  bronze — 
I  ask  only  that  one  page  of  my  writings  be  a 
knapsack  keepsake  of  the  young  men  who  are  the 
bloodkin  of  those  who  laughed  nine  hundred  years 
ago:  We  are  afraid  of  nothing — only — the  sky 
may  fall  on  us. 


196  Smoke  and  Steel 


MOHAMMED  BEK  HADJETLACHE 

THIS  Mohammedan  colonel  from  the  Caucasus  yells 
with  his  voice  and  wigwags  with  his  arms. 

The  interpreter  translates,  "  I  was  a  friend  of  Korni- 
lov,  he  asks  me  what  to  do  and  I  tell  him." 

A  stub  of  a  man,  this  Mohammedan  colonel  ...  a 
projectile  shape  ...  a  bald  head  hammered  .  .  . 

"  Does  he  fight  or  do  they  put  him  in  a  cannon  and 
shoot  him  at  the  enemy?" 

This  fly-by-night,  this  bull-roarer  who  knows  every- 
body. 

"  I  write  forty  books,  history  of  Islam,  history  of 
Europe,  true  religion,  scientific  farming,  I  am 
the  Roosevelt  of  the  Caucasus,  I  go  to  America 
and  ride  horses  in  the  moving  pictures  for  $500,- 
000,  you  get  $50,000  ..." 

"  I  have  30,000  acres  in  the  Caucasus,  I  have  a  stove 
factory  in  Petrograd  the  bolsheviks  take  from 
me,  I  am  an  old  friend  of  the  Czar,  I  am  an  old 
family  friend  of  Clemenceau  ..." 

These  hands  strangled  three  fellow  workers  for  the 
czarist  restoration,  took  their  money,  sent  them 
in  sacks  to  a  river  bottom  .  .  .  and  scandalized 
Stockholm  with  his  gang  of  strangler  women. 

Mid-sea  strangler  hands  rise  before  me  illustrating  a 
wish,  "  I  ride  horses  for  the  moving  pictures  in 
America,  $500,000,  and  you  get  ten  per  cent  .  .  ." 

This  rider  of  fugitive  dawns.  .   .   . 


Smoke  and  Steel  197 


HIGH  CONSPIRATORIAL  PERSONS 

OUT  of  the  testimony  of  such  reluctant  lips,  out  of 
the  oaths  and  mouths  of  such  scrupulous  liars, 
out  of  perjurers  whose  hands  swore  by  God  to 
the  white  sun  before  all  men, 

Out  of  a  rag  saturated  with  smears  and  smuts  gath- 
ered from  the  footbaths  of  kings  and  the  loin 
cloths  of  whores,  from  the  scabs  of  Babylon  and 
Jerusalem  to  the  scabs  of  London  and  New  York, 

From  such  a  rag  that  has  wiped  the  secret  sores  of 
kings  and  overlords  across  the  rrilleniums  of 
human  marches  and  babblings, 

From  such  a  rag  perhaps  I  shall  wring  one  reluctant 
desperate  drop  of  blood,  one  honest-to-God  spot 
of  red  speaking  a  mother-heart. 
December,  1918. 

Christiania,  Norway 


198  Smoke  and  Steel 


BALTIC  FOG  NOTES 

(Bergen) 

SEVEN  days  all  fog,  all  mist,  and  the  turbines  pound- 
ing through  high  seas. 
I  was  a  plaything,  a  rat's  neck  in  the  teeth  of  a  scuffling 

mastiff. 

Fog  and  fog  and  no  stars,  sun,  moon. 
Then  an  afternoon  in  fjords,  low-lying  lands  scrawled 

in  granite  languages  on  a  gray  sky, 
A  night  harbor,  blue  dusk  mountain  shoulders  against 

a  night  sky, 

And    a   circle    of    lights   blinking:    Ninety   thousand 
people  here. 

Among    the    Wednesday    night    thousands    in 

goloshes  and  coats  slickered  for  rain, 
I  learned  how  hungry  I  was  for  streets  and 
people. 


I  would  rather  be  water  than  anything  else. 

I  saw  a  drive  of  salt  fog  and  mist  in  the  North  Atlantic 

and  an  iceberg  dusky  as  a  cloud  in  the  gray  of 

morning. 
And  I  saw  the  dream  pools  of  fjords  in  Norway  .  .   . 

and  the  scarf  of  dancing  water  on  the  rocks  and 

over  the  edges  of  mountain  shelves. 


Baltic  Fog  Notes  199 

Bury  me  in  a  mountain  graveyard  in  Norway. 
Three  tongues  of  water  sing  around  it  with  snow 
from  the  mountains. 

Bury  me  in  the  North  Atlantic. 
A  fog  there  from  Iceland  will  be  a  murmur  in  gray 
over  me  and  a  long  deep  wind  sob  always. 

Bury  me  in  an  Illinois  cornfield. 

The  blizzards  loosen  their  pipe  organ  voluntaries  in 

winter  stubble  and  the  spring  rains  and  the  fall 

rains  bring  letters  from  the  sea. 


CIRCLES  OF  DOORS 


Smoke  and  Steel  203 


CIRCLES  OF  DOORS 

I  LOVE  him,  I  love  him,  ran  the  patter  of  her  lips 
And  she  formed  his  name  on  her  tongue  and  sang 
And  she  sent  him  word  she  loved  him  so  much, 
So  much,  and  death  was  nothing ;  work,  art,  home, 
All  was  nothing  if  her  love  for  him  was  not  first 
Of  all ;  the  patter  of  her  lips  ran,  I  love  him, 
I  love  him ;  and  he  knew  the  doors  that  opened 
Into  doors  and  more  doors,  no  end  of  doors, 
And  full  length  mirrors  doubling  and  tripling 
The  apparitions  of  doors :  circling  corridors  of 
Looking  glasses  and  doors,  some  with  knobs,  some 
With  no  knobs,  some  opening  slow  to  a  heavy  push, 
And  some  jumping  open  at  a  touch  and  a  hello. 
And  he  knew  if  he  so  wished  he  could  follow  her 
Swift  running  through  circles  of  doors,  hearing 
Sometimes  her  whisper,  I  love  him,  I  love  him, 
And  sometimes  only  a  high  chaser  of  laughter 
Somewhere  five  or  ten  doors  ahead  or  five  or  ten 
Doors  behind,  or  chittering  h-st,  h-st,  among  corners 
Of  the  tall  full-length  dusty  looking  glasses. 
I  love,  I  love,  I  love,  she  sang  short  and  quick  in 
High  thin  beaten  soprano  and  he  knew  the  meanings, 
The  high  chaser  of  laughter,  the  doors  on  doors 
And  the  looking  glasses,  the  room  to  room  hunt, 
The  ends  opening  into  new  ends  always. 


204  Smoke  and  Steel 


HATE 

ONE  man  killed  another.  The  saying  between  them 
had  been  "  I'd  give  you  the  shirt  off  my  back." 

The  killer  wept  over  the  dead.  The  dead  if  he  looks 
back  knows  the  killer  was  sorry.  It  was  a  shot 
in  one  second  of  hate  out  of  ten  years  of  love. 

Why  is  the  sun  a  red  ball  in  the  six  o'clock  mist? 

Why  is  the  moon  a  tumbling  chimney  ?  .  .  .  tumbling 
.  .  .  tumbling  ..."  I'd  give  you  the  shirt  off 
my  back "...  And  I'll  kill  you  if  my  head 
goes  wrong. 


Smoke  and  Steel  205 


TWO  STRANGERS  BREAKFAST 

THE  law  says  you  and  I  belong  to  each  other,  George. 
The  law  says  you  are  mine  and  I  am  yours,  George. 
And  there  are  a  million  miles  of  white  snowstorms,  a 

million  furnaces  of  hell, 
Between  the  chair  where  you  sit  and  the  chair  where 

I  sit. 
The  law  says  two  strangers  shall  eat  breakfast  together 

after  nights  on  the  horn  of  an  Arctic  moon. 


206  Smoke  and  Steel 


SNOW 

SNOW  took  us  away  from  the  smoke  valleys  into  white 
mountains,  we  saw  velvet  blue  cows  eating  a 
vermillion  grass  and  they  gave  us  a  pink  milk. 

Snow  changes  our  bones  into  fog  streamers  caught 
by  the  wind  and  spelled  into  many  dances. 

Six  bits  for  a  sniff  of  snow  in  the  old  days  bought 
us  bubbles  beautiful  to  forget  floating  long  arm 
women  across  sunny  autumn  hills. 

Our  bones  cry  and  cry,  no  let-up,  cry  their  telegrams : 
More,  more — a  yen  is  on,  a  long  yen  and  God  only 
knows  when  it  will  end. 

In  the  old  days  six  bits  got  us  snow  and  stopped  the 
yen — now  the  government  says :  No,  no,  when  our 
bones  cry  their  telegrams :  More,  more. 

The  blue  cows  are  dying,  no  more  pink  milk,  no  more 
floating  long  arm  women,  the  hills  are  empty — 
us  for  the  smoke  valleys — sneeze  and  shiver  and 
croak,  you  dopes — the  government  says :  No,  no. 


Smoke  and  Steel  207 


DANCER 

THE  lady  in  red,  she  in  the  chile  con  came  red, 

Brilliant  as  the  shine  of  a  pepper  crimson  in  the 
summer  sun, 

She  behind  a  false-face,  the  much  sought-after  dancer, 
the  most  sought-after  dancer  of  all  in  this  mas- 
querade, 

The  lady  in  red  sox  and  red  hat,  ankles  of  willow, 
crimson  arrow  amidst  the  Spanish  clashes  of 
music, 

I  sit  in  a  corner 

watching  her  dance  first  with  one  man 

and  then  another. 


208  Smoke  and  Steel 


PLASTER 

"  I  KNEW  a  real  man  once,"  says  Agatha  in  the  splen- 
dor of  a  shagbark  hickory  tree. 

Did  a  man  touch  his  lips  to  Agatha?  Did  a  man  hold 
her  in  his  arms?  Did  a  man  only  look  at  her 
and  pass  by? 

Agatha,  far  past  forty  in  a  splendor  of  remembrance, 
says,  "  I  knew  a  real  man  once." 


Smoke  and  Steel  209 


CURSE  OF  A  RICH  POLISH  PEASANT  ON  HIS 

SISTER  WHO  RAN  AWAY  WITH  A 

WILD  MAN 

FELIKSOWA  has  gone  again  from  our  house  and  this 

time  for  good,  I  hope. 
She  and  her  husband  took  with  them  the  cow  father 

gave  them,  and  they  sold  it. 
She  went  like  a  swine,  because  she  called  neither  on 

me,  her  brother,  nor  on  her  father,  before  leaving 

for  those  forests. 
That  is  where  she  ought  to  live,  with  bears,  not  with 

men. 
She  was  something  of  an  ape  before  and  there,  with 

her  wild  husband,  she  became  altogether  an  ape. 
No  honest  person  would  have  done  as  they  did. 
Whose  fault  is  it?    And  how  much  they  have  cursed 

me  and  their  father! 
May  God  not  punish  them  for  it.     They  think  only 

about  money;  they  let  the  church  go  if  they  can 

only  live  fat  on  their  money. 


2IO  Smoke  and  Steel 


WOMAN  WITH  A  PAST 

THERE  was  a  woman  tore  off  a  red  velvet  gown 
And  slashed  the  white  skin  of  her  right  shoulder 
And  a  crimson  zigzag  wrote  a  finger  nail  hurry. 

There  was  a  woman  spoke  six  short  words 
And  quit  a  life  that  was  old  to  her 
For  a  life  that  was  new. 

There  was  a  woman  swore  an  oath 
And  gave  hoarse  whisper  to  a  prayer 
And  it  was  all  over. 

She  was  a  thief  and  a  whore  and  a  kept  woman, 
She  was  a  thing  to  be  used  and  played  with. 
She  wore  an  ancient  scarlet  sash. 

The  story  is  thin  and  wavering, 

White  as  a  face  in  the  first  apple  blossoms, 

White  as  a  birch  in  the  snow  of  a  winter  moon. 

The  story  is  never  told. 

There  are  white  lips  whisper  alone. 

There  are  red  lips  whisper  alone. 

In  the  cool  of  the  old  walls, 
In  the  white  of  the  old  walls, 
The  red  song  is  over. 


Smoke  and  Steel  21 1 


WHITE  HANDS 

FOR  the  second  time  in  a  year  this  lady  with  the  white 
hands  is  brought  to  the  west  room  second  floor 
of  a  famous  sanatorium. 

Her  husband  is  a  cornice  manufacturer  in  an  Iowa 
town  and  the  lady  has  often  read  papers  on  Vic- 
torian poets  before  the  local  literary  club. 

Yesterday  she  washed  her  hands  forty  seven  times 
during  her  waking  hours  and  in  her  sleep  moaned 
restlessly  attempting  to  clean  imaginary  soiled 
spots  off  her  hands. 

Now  the  head  physician  touches  his  chin  with  a 
crooked  forefinger. 


212  Smoke  and  Steel 


AN  ELECTRIC   SIGN  GOES  DARK 

POLAND,  France,  Judea  ran  in  her  veins, 
Singing  to  Paris  for  bread,  singing  to  Gotham  in  a 
fizz  at  the  pop  of  a  bottle's  cork. 

"  Won't  you  come  and  play  wiz  me  "  she  sang  .  .  .  and 
"  I  just  can't  make  my  eyes  behave." 

"  Higgeldy-Piggeldy,"  "  Papa's  Wife,"  "  Follow  Me  " 
were  plays. 

Did  she  wash  her  feet  in  a  tub  of  milk?  Was  a  strand 
of  pearls  sneaked  from  her  trunk?  The  news- 
papers asked. 

Cigarettes,  tulips,  pacing  horses,  took  her  name. 

Twenty  years  old  .   .   .  thirty  .  .   .  forty  .   .   . 

Forty-five  and  the  doctors  fathom  nothing,  the  doctors 
quarrel,  the  doctors  use  silver  tubes  feeding 
twenty-four  quarts  of  blood  into  the  veins,  the 
respects  of  a  prize-fighter,  a  cab  driver. 

And  a  little  mouth  moans :  It  is  easy  to  die  when  they 
are  dying  so  many  grand  deaths  in  France. 

A  voice,  a  shape,  gone. 

A  baby  bundle  from  Warsaw  .  .  .  legs,  torso,  head 
.  .  .  on  a  hotel  bed  at  The  Savoy. 


An  Electric  Sign  Goes  Dark        213 

The  white  chiselings  of  flesh  that  flung  themselves  in 
somersaults,  straddles,  for  packed  houses: 

A  memory,  a  stage  and  footlights  out,  an  electric  sign 
on  Broadway  dark. 

She  belonged  to  somebody,  nobody. 

No  one  man  owned  her,  no  ten  nor  a  thousand. 

She  belonged  to  many  thousand  men,  lovers  of  the 

white  chiseling  of  arms  and  shoulders,  the  ivory 

of  a  laugh,  the  bells  of  song. 

Railroad  brakemen  taking  trains  across  Nebraska 
prairies,  lumbermen  jaunting  in  pine  and  tamarack 
of  the  Northwest,  stock  ranchers  in  the  middle 
west,  mayors  of  southern  cities 

Say  to  their  pals  and  wives  now :  I  see  by  the  papers 
Anna  Held  is  dead. 


214  Smoke  and  Steel 


THEY  BUY  WITH  AN  EYE  TO  LOOKS 

THE  fine  cloth  of  your  love  might  be  a  fabric  of  Egypt, 
Something  Sinbad,  the  sailor,  took  away  from  robbers, 
Something  a  traveler  with  plenty  of  money  might 

pick  up 

And  bring  home  and  stick  on  the  walls  and  say: 
"  There's  a  little  thing  made  a  hit  with  me 
When  I  was  in  Cairo — I  think  I  must  see  Cairo  again 

some  day." 
So  there   are   cornice   manufacturers,   chewing  gum 

kings, 

Young  Napoleons  who  corner  eggs  or  corner  cheese, 
Phenoms  looking  for  more  worlds  to  corner, 
And  still  other  phenoms  who  lard  themselves  in 
And  make  a  killing  in  steel,  copper,  permanganese, 
And  they  say  to  random  friends  in  for  a  call : 
"  Have  you  had  a  look  at  my  wife  ?    Here  she  is. 
Haven't  I  got  her  dolled  up  for  fair  ?  " 
O-ee !  the  fine  cloth  of  your  love  might  be  a  fabric  of 

Egypt. 


Smoke  and  Steel  215 


PROUD  AND  BEAUTIFUL 

AFTER  you  have  spent  all  the  money  modistes  and 
manicures  and  mannikins  will  take  for  fixing  you 
over  into  a  thing  the  people  on  the  streets  call 
proud  and  beautiful, 

After  the  shops  and  fingers  have  worn  out  all  they 
have  and  know  and  can  hope  to  have  and  know 
for  the  sake  of  making  you  what  the  people  on 
the  streets  call  proud  and  beautiful, 

After  there  is  absolutely  nothing  more  to  be  done  for 
the  sake  of  staging  you  as  a  great  enigmatic  bird 
of  paradise  and  they  must  all  declare  you  to  be 
proud  and  beautiful, 

After  you  have  become  the  last  word  in  good  looks, 
insofar  as  good  looks  may  be  fixed  and  formu- 
lated, then,  why  then,  there  is  nothing  more  to 
it  then,  it  is  then  you  listen  and  see  how  voices 
and  eyes  declare  you  to  be  proud  and  beautiful. 


216  Smoke  and  Steel 


TELEGRAM 

I  SAW  a  telegram  handed  a  two  hundred  pound  man 
at  a  desk.  And  the  little  scrap  of  paper  charged 
the  air  like  a  set  of  crystals  in  a  chemist's  tube 
to  a  whispering  pinch  of  salt. 

Cross  my  heart,  the  two  hundred  pound  man  had  just 
cracked  a  joke  about  a  new  hat  he  got  his  wife, 
when  the  messenger  boy  slipped  in  and  asked 
him  to  sign.  He  gave  the  boy  a  nickel,  tore  the 
envelope  and  read. 

Then  he  yelled  "  Good  God,"  jumped  for  his  hat  and 
raincoat,  ran  for  the  elevator  and  took  a  taxi 
to  a  railroad  depot. 

As  I  say,  it  was  like  a  set  of  crystals  in  a  chemist's 
tube  and  a  whispering  pinch  of  salt. 

I  wonder  what  Diogenes  who  lived  in  a  tub  in  the 
sun  would  have  commented  on  the  affair. 

I  know  a  shoemaker  who  works  in  a  cellar  slamming 
half-soles  onto  shoes,  and  when  I  told  him,  he 
said :  "  I  pay  my  bills,  I  love  my  wife,  and  I  am 
not  afraid  of  anybody." 


Smoke  and  Steel  217 


GLIMMER 

LET  down  your  braids  of  hair,  lady. 
Cross  your  legs  and  sit  before  the  looking-glass 
And  gaze  long  on  lines  under  your  eyes. 
Life  writes ;  men  dance. 

And  you  know  how  men  pay  women. 


218  Smoke  and  Steel 


WHITE  ASH 

THERE  is  a  woman  on  Michigan  Boulevard  keeps  a 
parrot  and  goldfish  and  two  white  mice. 

She  used  to  keep  a  houseful  of  girls  in  kimonos  and 
three  pushbuttons  on  the  front  door. 

Now  she  is  alone  with  a  parrot  and  goldfish  and  two 
white  mice  .  .  .  but  these  are  some  of  her  thoughts : 

The  love  of  a  soldier  on  furlough  or  a  sailor  on  shore 
leave  burns  with  a  bonfire  red  and  saffron. 

The  love  of  an  emigrant  workman  whose  wife  is  a 
thousand  miles  away  burns  with  a  blue  smoke. 

The  love  of  a  young  man  whose  sweetheart  married 
an  older  man  for  money  burns  with  a  sputtering  un- 
certain flame. 

And  there  is  a  love  .  .  .  one  in  a  thousand  .  .  . 
burns  clean  and  is  gone  leaving  a  white  ash.  .  .  . 

And  this  is  a  thought  she  never  explains  to  the  parrot 
and  goldfish  and  two  white  mice. 


Smoke  and  Steel  219 


TESTIMONY  REGARDING  A  GHOST 

THE  roses  slanted  crimson  sobs 
On  the  night  sky  hair  of  the  women, 
And  the  long  light-fingered  men 
Spoke  to  the  dark-haired  women, 
"  Nothing  lovelier,  nothing  lovelier." 
How  could  he  sit  there  among  us  all 
Guzzling  blood  into  his  guts, 
Goblets,  mugs,  buckets — 
Leaning,  toppling,  laughing 
With  a  slobber  on  his  mouth, 
A  smear  of  red  on  his  strong  raw  lips, 
How  could  he  sit  there 
And  only  two  or  three  of  us  see  him? 

There  was  nothing  to  it. 
He  wasn't  there  at  all,  of  course. 

The  roses  leaned  from  the  pots. 
The  sprays  snot  roses  gold  and  red 
And  the  roses  slanted  crimson  sobs 

In  the  night  sky  hair 
And  the  voices  chattered  on  the  way 
To  the  frappe,  speaking  of  pictures, 
Speaking  of  a  strip  of  black  velvet 
Crossing  a  girlish  woman's  throat, 
Speaking  of  the  mystic  music  flash 
Of  pots  and  sprays  of  roses, 
"  Nothing  lovelier,  nothing  lovelier." 


22O  Smoke  and  Steel 


PUT  OFF  THE  WEDDING  FIVE  TIMES  AND 
NOBODY  COMES  TO  IT 

(Handbook  for  Quarreling  Lovers) 

I  THOUGHT  of  offering  you  apothegms. 

I  might  have  said,  "  Dogs  bark  and  the  wind  carries 
it  away." 

I  might  have  said,  "  He  who  would  make  a  door  of 
gold  must  knock  a  nail  in  every  day." 

So  easy,  so  easy  it  would  have  been  to  inaugurate  a 
high  impetuous  moment  for  you  to  look  on  before 
the  final  farewells  were  spoken. 

You  who  assumed  the  farewells  in  the  manner  of 
people  buying  newspapers  and  reading  the  head- 
lines— and  all  peddlers  of  gossip  who  buttonhole 
each  other  and  wag  their  heads  saying,  "  Yes,  I 
heard  all  about  it  last  Wednesday." 

I  considered  several  apothegms. 

"  There  is  no  love  but  service,"  of  course,  would  only 
initiate  a  quarrel  over  who  has  served  and  how 
and  when. 

"  Love  stands  against  fire  and  flood  and  much  bitter- 
ness," would  only  initiate  a  second  misunderstand- 
ing, and  bickerings  with  lapses  of  silence. 

What  is  there  in  the  Bible  to  cover  our  case,  or  Shake- 
spere?  What  poetry  can  help?  Is  there  any  left 
but  Epictetus? 


Put  off  the  Wedding  221 

Since  you  have  already  chosen  to  interpret  silence  for 
language  and  silence  for  despair  and  silence  for 
contempt  and  silence  for  all  things  but  love, 

Since  you  have  already  chosen  to  read  ashes  where 
God  knows  there  was  something  else  than  ashes, 

Since  silence  and  ashes  are  two  identical  findings  for 
your  eyes  and  there  are  no  apothegms  worth 
handing  out  like  a  hung  jury's  verdict  for  a  record 
in  our  own  hearts  as  well  as  the  community  at 
large, 

I  can  only  remember  a  Russian  peasant  who  told  me 
his  grandfather  warned  him:  If  you  ride  too  good 
a  horse  you  will  not  take  the  straight  road  to 
town. 

It  will  always  come  back  to  me  in  the  blur  of  that 
hokku:  The  heart  of  a  woman  of  thirty  is  like 
the  red  ball  of  the  sun  seen  through  a  mist. 
Or  I  will  remember  the  witchery  in  the  eyes  of  a  girl 
at  a  barn  dance  one  winter  night  in  Illinois  saying : 
Put  off  the  wedding  five  times  and  nobody 
comes  to  it. 


222  Smoke  and  Steel 


BABY  VAMPS 

BABY  vamps,  is  it  harder  work  than  it  used  to  be  ? 
Are  the  new  soda  parlors  worse  than  the  old  time 

saloons  ? 

Baby  vamps,  do  you  have  jobs  in  the  day  time 
or  is  this  all  you  do? 
do  you  come  out  only  at  night? 
In  the  winter  at  the  skating  rinks,  in  the  summer  at  the 

roller  coaster  parks, 
Wherever  figure  eights  are  carved,  by  skates  in  winter, 

by  roller  coasters  in  summer, 
Wherever  the  whirligigs  are  going  and  chicken  Spanish 

and  hot  dog  are  sold, 

There  you  come,  giggling  baby  vamp,  there  you  come 
with  your  blue  baby  eyes,  saying: 
Take  me  along. 


Smoke  and  Steel  223 


VAUDEVILLE  DANCER 

ELSIE  FLIMMERWON,  you  got  a  job  now  with  a  jazz 
outfit  in  vaudeville. 

The  houses  go  wild  when  you  finish  the  act  shimmying 
a  fast  shimmy  to  The  Livery  Stable  Blues. 

It  is  long  ago,  Elsie  Flimmerwon,  I  saw  your  mother 
over  a  washtub  in  a  grape  arbor  when  your  father 
came  with  the  locomotor  ataxia  shuffle. 

It  is  long  ago,  Elsie,  and  now  they  spell  your  name 
with  an  electric  sign. 

Then  you  were  a  little  thing  in  checked  gingham 
and  your  mother  wiped  your  nose  and  said:  You 
little  fool,  keep  off  the  streets. 

Now  you  are  a  big  girl  at  last  and  streetfuls  of 
people  read  your  name  and  a  line  of  people  shaped 
like  a  letter  S  stand  at  the  box  office  hoping  to 
see  you  shimmy. 


224  Smoke  and  Steel 


BALLOON  FACES 

THE  balloons  hang  on  wires  in  the  Marigold  Gardens. 

They  spot  their  yellow  and  gold,  they  juggle  their  blue 
and  red,  they  float  their  faces  on  the  face  of  the 
sky. 

Balloon  face  eaters  sit  by  hundreds  reading  the  eat 
cards,  asking,  "  What  shall  we  eat  ?  " — and  the 
waiters,  "  Have  you  ordered  ? "  they  are  sixty 
ballon  faces  sifting  white  over  the  tuxedoes. 

Poets,  lawyers,  ad  men,  mason  contractors,  smart- 
alecks  discussing  "  educated  jackasses,"  here  they 
put  crabs  into  their  balloon  faces. 

Here  sit  the  heavy  balloon  face  women  lifting  crimson 
lobsters  into  their  crimson  faces,  lobsters  out  of 
Sargossa  sea  bottoms. 

Here  sits  a  man  cross-examining  a  woman,  "  Where 
were  you  last  night?  What  do  you  do  with  all 
your  money?  Who's  buying  your  shoes  now, 
anyhow  ? " 

So  they  sit  eating  whitefish,  two  balloon  faces  swept 
on  God's  night  wind. 

And  all  the  time  the  balloon  spots  on  the  wires,  a  little 
mile  of  festoons,  they  play  their  own  silence  play 
of  film  yellow  and  film  gold,  bubble  blue  and  bub- 
ble red. 

The  wind  crosses  the  town,  the  wind  from  the  west 
side  comes  to  the  banks  of  marigolds  boxed  in  the 
Marigold  Gardens. 


Balloon  Faces  22$ 

Night  moths  fly  and  fix  their  feet  in  the  leaves  and 
eat  and  are  seen  by  the  eaters. 

The  jazz  outfit  sweats  and  the  drums  and  the  saxo- 
phones reach  for  the  ears  of  the  eaters. 

The  chorus  brought  from  Broadway  works  at  the  fun 
and  the  slouch  of  their  shoulders,  the  kick  of  their 
ankles,  reach  for  the  eyes  of  the  eaters. 

These  girls  from  Kokomo  and  Peoria,  these  hungry 
girls,  since  they  are  paid-for,  let  us  look  on  and 
listen,  let  us  get  their  number. 

Why  do  I  go  again  to  the  balloons  on  the  wires,  some- 
thing for  nothing,  kin  women  of  the  half-moon, 
dream  women? 

And  the  half -moon  swinging  on  the  wind  crossing  the 
town — these  two,  the  half -moon  and  the  wind — 
this  will  be  about  all,  this  will  be  about  all. 

Eaters,  go  to  it;  your  mazuma  pays  for  it  all;  it's  a 
knockout,  a  classy  knockout — and  payday  always 
comes. 

The  moths  in  the  marigolds  will  do  for  me,  the  half- 
moon,  the  wishing  wind  and  the  little  mile  of 
balloon  spots  on  wires — this  will  be  about  all,  this 
will  be  about  all. 


HAZE 


Smoke  and  Steel  229 


HAZE 

KEEP  a  red  heart  of  memories 

Under  the  great  gray  rain  sheds  of  the  sky, 

Under  the  open  sun  and  the  yellow  gloaming  embers. 

Remember  all  paydays  of  lilacs  and  songbirds; 

All  starlights  of  cool  memories  on  storm  paths. 

Out  of  this  prairie  rise  the  faces  of  dead  men. 
They  speak  to  me.    I  can  not  tell  you  what  they  say. 

Other  faces  rise  on  the  prairie. 

They  are  the  unborn.    The  future. 

Yesterday  and  to-morrow  cross  and  mix  on  the  sky- 
line 

The  two  are  lost  in  a  purple  haze.  One  forgets.  One 
waits. 

In  the  yellow  dust  of  sunsets,  in  the  meadows  of 
vermilion  eight  o'clock  June  nights  .  .  .  the 
dead  men  and  the  unborn  children  speak  to  me 
...  I  can  not  tell  you  what  they  say  .  .  .  you 
listen  and  you  know. 

I  don't  care  who  you  are,  man: 

I  know  a  woman  is  looking  for  you 

and  her  soul  is  a  corn-tassel  kissing  a  south-west  wind. 


230  Haze 

(The  farm-boy  whose  face  is  the  color  of  brick-dust, 
is  calling  the  cows ;  he  will  form  the  letter  X  with 
crossed  streams  of  milk  from  the  teats;  he  will 
beat  a  tattoo  on  the  bottom  of  a  tin  pail  with  X's 
of  milk.) 

I  don't  care  who  you  are,  man: 
I  know  sons  and  daughters  looking  for  you 
And  they  are  gray  dust  working  toward  star  paths 
And  you  see  them  from  a  garret  window  when  you 

laugh 
At  your  luck  and  murmur,  "  I  don't  care." 

I  don't  care  who  you  are,  woman: 
I  know  a  man  is  looking  for  you 
And  his  soul  is  a  south-west  wind  kissing  a  corn- 
tassel. 

(The  kitchen  girl  on  the  farm  is  throwing  oats  to  the 
chickens  and  the  buff  of  their  feathers  says  hello 
to  the  sunset's  late  maroon.) 

I  don't  care  who  you  are,  woman: 
I  know  sons  and  daughters  looking  for  you 
And  they  are  next  year's  wheat  or  the  year  after 
hidden  in  the  dark  and  loam. 

My  love  is  a  yellow  hammer  spinning  circles  in  Ohio, 
Indiana.  My  love  is  a  redbird  shooting  flights 
in  straight  lines  in  Kentucky  and  Tennessee.  My 
love  is  an  early  robin  flaming  an  ember  of  copper 


Haze  231 

on  her  shoulders  in  March  and  April.  My  love 
is  a  graybird  living  in  the  eaves  of  a  Michigan 
house  all  winter.  Why  is  my  love  always  a  crying 
thing  of  wings? 

On  the  Indiana  dunes,  in  the  Mississippi  marshes,  I 

have  asked:  Is  it  only  a  fishbone  on  the  beach? 
Is  it  only  a  dog's  jaw  or  a  horse's  skull  whitening  in 

the  sun?     Is  the  red  heart  of  man  only  ashes? 

Is  the  flame  of  it  all  a  white  light  switched  off 

and  the  power  house  wires  cut? 

Why  do  the  prairie  roses  answer  every  summer  ?  Why 
do  the  changing  repeating  rains  come  back  out 
of  the  salt  sea  wind-blown?  Why  do  the  stars 
keep  their  tracks?  Why  do  the  cradles  of  the 
sky  rock  new  babies? 


232  Smoke  and  Steel 


CADENZA 

THE  knees 

of  this  proud  woman 
are  bone. 

The  elbows 

of  this  proud  woman 
are  bone. 

The  summer-white  stars 
and  the  winter-white  stars 

never  stop  circling 

around  this  proud  woman. 

The  bones 

of  this  proud  woman 
answer  the  vibrations 

of  the  stars. 

In  summer 
the  stars  speak  deep  thoughts 

In  the  winter 
the  stars   repeat  summer  speech* 

The  knees 

of  this  proud  woman 
know  these  thoughts 

and  know  these  speeches 
of  the  summer  and  winter  stars. 


Smoke  and  Steel  233 


MEMORANDA 

THIS  handful  of  grass,  brown,  says  little.  This  quar- 
ter mile  field  of  it,  waving  seeds  ripening  in  the 
sun,  is  a  lake  of  luminous  firefly  lavender. 


Prairie  roses,  two  of  them,  climb  down  the  sides  of 
a  road  ditch.  In  the  clear  pool  they  find  their 
faces  along  stiff  knives  of  grass,  and  cat-tails 
who  speak  and  keep  thoughts  in  beaver  brown. 


These  gardens  empty ;  these  fields  only  flower  ghosts ; 
these  yards  with  faces  gone ;  leaves  speaking  as 
feet  and  skirts  in  slow  dances  to  slow  winds ;  I 
turn  my  head  and  say  good-by  to  no  one  who 
hears ;  I  pronounce  a  useless  good-by. 


234  Smoke  and  Steel 


POTOMAC  TOWN   IN   FEBRUARY 

THE  bridge  says :  Come  across,  try  me ;  see  how  good 

I  am. 
The  big  rock  in  the  river  says :  Look  at  me ;  learn 

how  to  stand  up. 
The  white  water  says :  I  go  on ;  around,  under,  over, 

I  go  on. 
A  kneeling,  scraggly  pine  says :  I  am  here  yet ;  they 

nearly  got  me  last  year. 
A  sliver  of  moon  slides  by  on  a  high  wind  calling:  I 

know  why;  I'll  see  you  to-morrow;  I'll  tell  you 

everything  to-morrow. 


Smoke  and  Steel  235 


BUFFALO  DUSK 

THE  buffaloes  are  gone. 

And  those  who  saw  the  buffaloes  are  gone. 

Those  who  saw  the  buffaloes  by  thousands  and  how 
they  pawed  the  prairie  sod  into  dust  with  their 
hoofs,  their  great  heads  down  pawing  on  in  a 
great  pageant  of  dusk, 

Those  who  saw  the  buffaloes  are  gone. 

And  the  buffaloes  are  gone. 


236  Smoke  and  Steel 


CORN  HUT  TALK 

WRITE  your  wishes 
on  the  door 
and  come  in. 

Stand  outside 

in  the  pools  of  the  harvest  moon. 

Bring  in 

the  handshake  of  the  pumpkins. 

There's  a  wish 

for  every  hazel  nut? 
There's  a  hope 

for  every  corn  shock  ? 
There's  a  kiss 

for  every  clumsy  climbing  shadow? 

Clover  and  the  bumblebees  once, 
high  winds  and  November  rain  now. 

Buy  shoes 

for  rough  weather  in  November. 
Buy  shirts 

to  sleep  outdoors  when  May  comes. 


Corn  Hut  Talk  237 

Buy  me 
something  useless  to  remember  you  by. 

Send  me 
a  sumach  leaf  from  an  Illinois  hill. 

In  the  faces  marching  in  the  firelog  flickers, 
In  the  fire  music  of  wood  singing  to  winter, 
Make  my  face  march  through  the  purple  and  ashes. 
Make  me  one  of  the  fire  singers  to  winter. 


238  Smoke  and  Steel 


BRANCHES 

THE  dancing  girls  here   .    .    .   after  a  long  night  of 

it  ... 

The  long  beautiful  night  of  the  wind  and  rain  in  April, 
The   long   night   hanging   down    from   the   drooping 

branches  of  the  top  of  a  birch  tree, 
Swinging,  swaying,  to  the  wind  for  a  partner,  to  the 

rain  for  a  partner. 
What  is  the  humming,  swishing  thing  they  sing  in 

the  morning  now? 
The  rain,  the  wind,  the  swishing  whispers  of  the  long 

slim  curve  so  little  and  so  dark  on  the  western 

morning  sky  .   .   .  these  dancing  girls  here  on  an 

April  early  morning  .    .    . 
They  have  had  a  long  cool  beautiful  night  of  it  with 

their  partners  learning  this  year's  song  of  April. 


Smoke  and  Steel  239 


RUSTY  CRIMSON 
(Christmas  Day,  1917) 

THE  five  o'clock  prairie  sunset  is  a  strong  man  going 
to  sleep  after  a  long  day  in  a  cornfield. 

The  red  dust  of  a  rusty  crimson  is  fixed  with  two 
fingers  of  lavender.  A  hook  of  smoke,  a  woman's 
nose  in  charcoal  and  .  .  .  nothing. 

The  timberline  turns  in  a  cover  of  purple.  A  grain 
elevator  humps  a  shoulder.  One  steel  star  whisks 
out  a  pointed  fire.  Moonlight  comes  on  the 
stubble. 


"Jesus   in  an  Illinois  barn  early  this  morning,  the 
baby  Jesus  ...  in  flannels  ..." 


240  Smoke  and  Steel 


LETTER  S 

THE  river  is  gold  under  a  sunset  of  Illinois. 
It  is  a  molten  gold  someone  pours  and  changes. 
A  woman  mixing  a  wedding  cake  of  butter  and  eggs 
Knows  what  the  sunset  is  pouring  on  the  river  here. 
The  river  twists  in  a  letter  S. 

A  gold  S  now  speaks  to  the  Illinois  sky. 


Smoke  and  Steel  241 


WEEDS 

FROM  the  time  of  the  early  radishes 
To  the  time  of  the  standing  corn 
Sleepy  Henry  Hackerman  hoes. 

There  are  laws  in  the  village  against  weeds. 

The  law  says  a  weed  is  wrong  and  shall  be  killed. 

The  weeds  say  life  is  a  white  and  lovely  thing 

And  the  weeds  come  on  and  on  in  irrepressible  regi- 
ments. 

Sleepy  Henry  Hackerman  hoes;  and  the  village  law 
uttering  a  ban  on  weeds  is  unchangeable  law. 


242  Smoke  and  Steel 


NEW  FARM  TRACTOR 

SNUB  nose,  the  guts  of  twenty  mules  are  in  your 
cylinders  and  transmission. 

The  rear  axles  hold  the  kick  of  twenty  Missouri 
jackasses. 

It  is  in  the  records  of  the  patent  office  and  the  ads 
there  is  twenty  horse  power  pull  here. 

The  farm  boy  says  hello  to  you  instead  of  twenty 
mules — he  sings  to  you  instead  of  ten  span  of 
mules. 

A  bucket  of  oil  and  a  can  of  grease  is  your  hay  and 
oats. 

Rain  proof  and  fool  proof  they  stable  you  anywhere 
in  the  fields  with  the  stars  for  a  roof. 

I  carve  a  team  of  long  ear  mules  on  the  steering  wheel 
— it's  good-by  now  to  leather  reins  and  the  songs 
of  the  old  mule  skinners. 


Smoke  and  Steel  243 


PODS 

PEA  pods  cling  to  stems. 

Neponset,  the  village, 

Clings  to  the  Burlington  railway  main  line. 

Terrible  midnight  limiteds  roar  through 

Hauling  sleepers  to  the  Rockies  and  Sierras. 

The  earth  is  slightly  shaken 

And  Neponset  trembles  slightly  in  its  sleep. 


244  Smoke  and  Steel 


HARVEST  SUNSET 

RED  gold  of  pools, 

Sunset  furrows  six  o'clock, 

And  the  farmer  done  in  the  fields 

And  the  cows  in  the  barns  with  bulging  udders. 

Take  the  cows  and  the  farmer, 

Take  the  barns  and  bulging  udders. 

Leave  the  red  gold  of  pools 

And  sunset  furrows  six  o'clock. 

The  farmer's  wife  is  singing. 

The  farmer's  boy  is  whistling. 

I  wash  my  hands  in  red  gold  of  pools. 


Smoke  and  Steel  245 


NIGHT'S  NOTHINGS  AGAIN 

WHO  knows  what  I  know 
when  I  have  asked  the  night  questions 
and  the  night  has  answered  nothing 
only  the  old  answers? 

Who  picked  a  crimson  cryptogram, 

the  tail  light  of  a  motor  car  turning  a  corner, 

or  the  midnight  sign  of  a  chile  con  carne  place, 

or  a  man  out  of  the  ashes  of  false  dawn  muttering 

"  hot-dog  "  to  the  night  watchmen : 
Is  there  a  spieler  who  has  spoken  the  word  or  taken 

the  number  of  night's  nothings?  am  I  the  spieler? 

or  you? 

Is  there  a  tired  head 

the  night  has  not  fed  and  rested 

and  kept  on  its  neck  and  shoulders? 

Is  there  a  wish 
of  man  to  woman 
and  woman  to  man 
the  night  has  not  written 
and  signed  its  name  under? 

Does  the  night  forget 
as  a  woman  forgets? 
and  remember 
as  a  woman  remembers? 


246  Night's  Nothings  Again 

Who  gave  the  night 
this  head  of  hair, 
this  gipsy  head 
calling :  Come-on  ? 

Who  gave  the  night  anything  at  all 
and  asked  the  night  questions 
and  was  laughed  at? 

Who  asked  the  night 

for  a  long  soft  kiss 

and  lost  the  half-way  lips? 

who  picked  a  red  lamp  in  a  mist? 

Who  saw  the  night 

fold  its  Mona  Lisa  hands 

and  sit  half-smiling,  half-sad, 

nothing  at  all, 

and  everything, 

all  the  world? 

Who  saw  the  night 

let  down  its  hair 

and  shake  its  bare  shoulders 

and  blow  out  the  candles  of  the  moon, 

whispering,  snickering, 

cutting  off  the  snicker  .   .  and  sobbing  ,  „ 

out  of  pillow-wet  kisses  and  tears? 

Is  the  night  woven  of  anything  else 
than  the  secret  wishes  of  women, 
the  stretched  empty  arms  of  women? 
the  hair  of  women  with  stars  and  roses? 


Night's  Nothings  Again  247 

I  asked  the  night  these  questions. 

I  heard  the  night  asking  me  these  questions. 

I  saw  the  night 

put  these  whispered  nothings 

across  the  city  dust  and  stones, 

across  a  single  yellow  sunflower, 

one  stalk  strong  as  a  woman's  wrist; 

And  the  play  of  a  light  rain, 

the  jig-time  folly  of  a  light  rain, 

the  creepers  of  a  drizzle  on  the  sidewalks 

for  the  policemen  and  the  railroad  men, 

for  the  home-goers  and  the  homeless, 

silver  fans  and  funnels  on  the  asphalt, 

the  many  feet  of  a  fog  mist  that  crept  away ; 

I  saw  the  night 
put  these  nothings  across 
and  the  night  wind  came  saying :  Come-on : 
and  the  curve  of  sky  swept  off  white  clouds 
and  swept  on  white  stars  over  Battery  to  Bronx, 
scooped  a  sea  of  stars  over  Albany,  Dobbs  Ferry,  Cape 
Horn,  Constantinople. 

I  saw  the  night's  mouth  and  lips 

strange  as  a  face  next  to  mine  on  a  pillow 

and  now  I  know  .  .  .  as  I  knew  always  .  .  . 

the  night  is  a  lover  of  mine  .  .   . 

I  know  the  night  is  ...  everything. 

I  know  the  night  is  ...  all  the  world. 


248  Night's  Nothings  Again 

I  have  seen  gold  lamps  in  a  lagoon 
play  sleep  and  murmur 
with  never  an  eyelash, 
never  a  glint  of  an  eyelid, 
quivering  in  the  water-shadows. 

A  taxi  whizzes  by,  an  owl  car  clutters,  passengers  yawn 
reading  street  signs,  a  bum  on  a  park  bench  shifts, 
another  bum  keeps  his  majesty  of  stone  stillness, 
the  forty-foot  split  rocks  of  Central  Park  sleep 
the  sleep  of  stone  whalebacks,  the  cornices  of  the 
Metropolitan  Art  mutter  their  own  nothings  to  the 
men  with  rolled-up  collars  on  the  top  of  a  bus : 
Breaths  of  the  sea  salt  Atlantic,  breaths  of  two  rivers, 
and  a  heave  of  hawsers  and  smokestacks,  the 
swish  of  multiplied  sloops  and  war  dogs,  the  hesi- 
tant hoo-hoo  of  coal  boats:  among  these  I  listen 
to  Night  calling: 

I  give  you  what  money  can  never  buy :  all  other  lovers 
change :  all  others  go  away  and  come  back  and  go 
away  again : 

I  am  the  one  you  slept  with  last  night. 

I  am  the  one  you  sleep  with   tonight  and 

tomorrow  night. 

I  am  the  one  whose  passion  kisses 
keep  your  head  wondering 
and  your  lips  aching 
to  sing  one  song 
never  sung  before 
at  night's  gipsy  head 
calling:  Come-on. 


Night's  Nothings  Again  249 

These  hands  that  slid  to  my  neck  and  held  me, 

these  fingers  that  told  a  story, 

this  gipsy  head  of  hair  calling:  Come-on: 

can  anyone  else  come  along  now 

and  put  across  night's  nothings  again? 

I  have  wanted  kisses  my  heart  stuttered  at  asking, 
I  have  pounded  at  useless  doors  and  called  my  people 

fools. 
I   have    staggered   alone   in   a   winter   dark   making 

mumble  songs 
to  the  sting  of  a  blizzard  that  clutched  and  swore. 

It  was  the  night  in  my  blood: 
open  dreaming  night, 
night  of  tireless  sheet-steel  blue : 

The  hands  of  God  washing  something, 
feet  of  God  walking  somewhere. 


PANELS 


Smoke  and  Steel  253 


PANELS 

THE  west  window  is  a  panel  of  marching  onions. 
Five  new  lilacs  nod  to  the  wind  and  fence  boards. 
The  rain  dry  fence  boards,  the  stained  knot  holes, 

heliograph  a  peace. 
(How  long  ago  the  knee  drifts  here  and  a  blizzard 

howling  at  the  knot  holes, 

whistling  winter  war  drums  ?) 


254  Smoke  and  Steel 


DAN 

EARLY  May,  after  cold  rain  the  sun  baffling  cold  wind. 
Irish  setter  pup  finds  a  corner  near  the  cellar  door, 

all  sun  and  no  wind, 

Cuddling  there  he  crosses  forepaws  and  lays  his  skull 
Sideways  on  this  pillow,  dozing  in  a  half-sleep, 
Browns  of  hazel  nut,  mahogany,  rosewood,  played  off 

against  each  other  on  his  paws 

and  head. 


Smoke  and  Steel  255 


WHIFFLETREE 

GIVE  me  your  anathema. 

Speak  new  damnations  on  my  head. 

The  evening  mist  in  the  hills  is  soft. 

The  boulders  on  the  road  say  communion. 

The  farm  dogs  look  out  of  their  eyes  and  keep  thoughts 

from  the  corn  cribs. 

Dirt  of  the  reeling  earth  holds  horseshoes. 
The  rings  in  the  whiffletree  count  their  secrets. 
Come  on,  you. 


256  Smoke  and  Steel 


MASCOTS 

I  WILL  keep  you  and  bring  hands  to  hold  you  against 

a  great  hunger. 
I  will  run  a  spear  in  you  for  a  great  gladness  to  die 

with. 
I  will  stab  you  between  the  ribs  of  the  left  side  with 

a  great  love  worth  remembering. 


Smoke  and  Steel  257 


THE  SKYSCRAPER  LOVES  NIGHT 

ONE  by  one  lights  of  a  skyscraper  fling  their  checker- 
ing cross  work  on  the  velvet  gown  of  night. 

I  believe  the  skyscraper  loves  night  as  a  woman  and 
brings  her  playthings  she  asks  for,  brings  her  a 
velvet  gown, 

And  loves  the  white  of  her  shoulders  hidden  under 
the  dark  feel  of  it  all. 

The  masonry  of  steel  looks  to  the  night  for  somebody 

it  loves, 
He  is  a  little  dizzy  and  almost  dances  .    .    .  waiting 

.   .   .  dark  . 


258  Smoke  and  Steel 


NEVER  BORN 

THE  time  has  gone  by. 

The  child  is  dead. 

The  child  was  never  even  born. 

Why  go  on  ?    Why  so  much  as  begin  ? 

How  can  we  turn  the  clock  back  now 

And  not  laugh  at  each  other 

As  ashes  laugh  at  ashes? 


Smoke  and  Steel  259 


THIN  STRIPS 

IN  a  jeweler's  shop  I  saw  a  man  beating 
out  thin  sheets  of  gold.    I  heard  a  woman 
laugh  many  years  ago. 

Under  a  peach  tree  I  saw  petals  scattered 
.   .  torn  strips  of  a  bride's  dress.    I  heard 
a  woman  laugh  many  years  ago. 


260  Smoke  and  Steel 


FIVE  CENT  BALLOONS 

PIETRO  has  twenty  red  and  blue  balloons  on  a  string. 
They  flutter  and  dance  pulling  Pietro's  arm. 
A  nickel  apiece  is  what  they  sell  for. 

Wishing  children  tag  Pietro's  heels. 
He  sells  out  and  goes  the  streets  alone. 


Smoke  and  Steel  261 


MY  PEOPLE 

MY  people  are  gray, 

pigeon  gray,  dawn  gray,  storm  gray. 
I  call  them  beautiful, 

and  I  wonder  where  they  are  goir*g. 


262  Smoke  and  Steel 


SWIRL 

A  SWIRL  in  the  air  where  your  head  was  once,  here. 
You  walked  under  this  tree,  spoke  to  a  moon  for  me 
I  might  almost  stand  here  and  believe  you  alive. 


Smoke  and  Steel  263 


WISTFUL 

WISHES  left  on  your  lips 
The  mark  of  their  wings. 
Regrets  fly  kites  in  your  eyes. 


264  Smoke  and  Steel 


BASKET 

SPEAK,  sir,  and  be  wise. 
Speak  choosing  your  words,  sir, 

like  an  old  woman  over  a  bushel 

of  apples. 


Smoke  and  Steel  265 


FIRE  PAGES 

I  WILL  read  ashes  for  you,  if  you  ask  me. 

I  will  look  in  the  fire  and  tell  you  from  the  gray  lashes 

And  out  of  the  red  and  black  tongues  and  stripes, 

I  will  tell  how  fire  comes 

And  how  fire  runs  far  as  the  sea. 


266  Smoke  and  Steel 


FINISH 

DEATH  comes  once,  let  it  be  easy. 

Ring  one  bell  for  me  once,  let  it  go  at  that. 

Or  ring  no  bell  at  all,  better  yet. 

Sing  one  song  if  I  die. 

Sing  John  Brown's  Body  or  Shout  All  Over  God's 

Heaven. 
Or  sing  nothing  at  all,  better  yet. 

Death  comes  once,  let  it  be  easy. 


Smoke  and  Steel  267 


FOR  YOU 

THE  peace  of  great  doors  be  for  you. 
.Wait  at  the  knobs,  at  the  panel  oblongs. 
Wait  for  the  great  hinges. 

The  peace  of  great  churches  be  for  you, 
Where  the  players  of  loft  pipe  organs 
Practice  old  lovely  fragments,  alone. 

The  peace  of  great  books  be  for  you, 
Stains  of  pressed  clover  leaves  on  pages, 
Bleach  of  the  light  of  years  held  in  leather. 

The  peace  of  great  prairies  be  for  you. 
Listen  among  windplayers  in  cornfields, 
The  wind  learning  over  its  oldest  music. 

The  peace  of  great  seas  be  for  you. 
Wait  on  a  hook  of  land,  a  rock  footing 
For  you,  wait  in  the  salt  wash. 

The  peace  of  great  mountains  be  for  you, 

The  sleep  and  the  eyesight  of  eagles, 

Sheet  mist  shadows  and  the  long  look  across. 

The  peace  of  great  hearts  be  for  you, 
Valves  of  the  blood  of  the  sun, 
Pumps  of  the  strongest  wants  we  cry. 


268  For  You 

The  peace  of  great  silhouettes  be  for  you, 
Shadow  dancers  alive  in  your  blood  now, 
Alive  and  crying,  "  Let  us  out,  let  us  out." 

The  peace  of  great  changes  be  for  you. 
Whisper,  Oh  beginners  in  the  hills. 
Tumble,  Oh  cubs — to-morrow  belongs  to  you. 

The  peace  of  great  loves  be  for  you. 

Rain,  soak  these  roots;  wind,  shatter  the  dry  rot. 

Bars  of  sunlight,  grips  of  the  earth,  hug  these. 

The  peace  of  great  ghosts  be  for  you, 

Phantoms  of  night-gray  eyes,  ready  to  go 

To  the  fog-star  dumps,  to  the  fire-white  doors. 

Yes,  the  peace  of  great  phantoms  be  for  you, 
Phantom  iron  men,  mothers  of  bronze, 
Keepers  of  the  lean  clean  breeds. 


SLABS 
OF    THE    SUNBURNT   WEST 


TO 

HELGA 


THE   WINDY    CITY 

i 

THE  lean  hands  of  wagon  men 
put  out  pointing  fingers  here, 
picked  this  crossway,  put  it  on  a  map, 
set  up  their  sawbucks,  fixed  their  shotguns, 
found  a  hitching  place  for  the  pony  express, 
made  a  hitching  place  for  the  iron  horse, 
the  one-eyed  horse  with  the  fire-spit  head, 
found  a  homelike  spot  and  said,  "  Make  a  home," 
saw  this  corner  with  a  mesh  of  rails,  shuttling 

people,  shunting  cars,  shaping  the  junk  of 

the  earth  to  a  new  city. 

The  hands  of  men  took  hold  and  tugged 
AnH  thp  hrpa.thR.nf  men  went  into  the  junk 
And  the  junk  stood  up  into  skyscrapers  and  asked: 
Who  am  I?    Am  I  a  city?    And  if  I  am  what  is  my  name? 
And  once  while  the  time  whistles  blew  and  blew  again 
The  men  answered:  Long  ago  we  gave  you  a  name, 
Long  ago  we  laughed  and  said:    You?     Your  name  is 
Chicago. 

Early  the  red  men  gave  a  name  to  a  river, 
the  place  of  the  skunk, 
the  river  of  the  wild  onion  smell, 
Shee-caw-go. 

3 


4  The  Windy  City 

Out  of  the  payday  songs  of  steam  shovels, 
Out  of  the  wages  of  structural  iron  rivets, 
The  living  lighted  skyscrapers  tell  it  now  as  a  name, 
Tell  it  across  miles  of  sea  blue  water,  gray  blue  land: 
I  am  Chicago,  I  am  a  name  given  out  by  the  breaths  of 
working  men,  laughing  men,  a  child,  a  belonging. 


So  between  the  Great  Lakes, 

The  Grand  De  Tour,  and  the  Grand  Prairie, 

The  living  lighted  skyscrapers  stand, 

Spotting  the  blue  dusk  with  checkers  of  yellow, 
streamers  of  smoke  and  silver, 
parallelograms  of  night-gray  watchmen, 

Singing  a  soft  moaning  song:  I  am  a  child,  a  belonging. 


How  should  the  wind  songs  of  a  windy  city  go? 
Singing  in  a  high  wind  the  dirty  chatter  gets  blown 
away  on  the  wind — the  clean  shovel, 

the  clean  pickax, 

lasts. 

It  is  easy  for  a  child  to  get  breakfast  and  pack  off 

to  school  with  a  pair  of  roller  skates, 

buns  for  lunch,  and  a  geography. 
Riding  through  a  tunnel  under  a  river  running  backward, 

to  school  to  listen  .  .  .  how  the  Pottawattamies  .  .  . 

and  the  Blackhawks  .  .  .  ran  on  moccasins  .  .  . 

between  Kaskaskia,  Peoria,  Kankakee,  and  Chicago. 


The  Windy  City  5 

It  is  easy  to  sit  listening  to  a  boy  babbling 
of  the  Pottawattamie  moccasins  in  Illinois, 
how  now  the  roofs  and  smokestacks  cover  miles 
where  the  deerfoot  left  its  writing 
and  the  foxpaw  put  its  initials 
in  the  snow  ...  for  the  early  moccasins  ...  to 
read. 


It  is  easy  for  the  respectable  taxpayers  to  sit  in  the 
street  cars  and  read  the  papers,  faces  of  burglars, 
the  prison  escapes,  the  hunger  strikes,  the  cost  of 
living,  the  price  of  dying,  the  shop  gate  battles  of 
strikers  and  strikebreakers,  the  strikers  killing 
scabs  and  the  police  killing  strikers — the  strongest, 
the  strongest,  always  the  strongest. 


It  is  easy  to  listen  to  the  haberdasher  customers  hand 
each  other  their  easy  chatter — it  is  easy  to  die 
alive — to  register  a  living  thumbprint  and  be  dead 
from  the  neck  up. 

And  there  are  sidewalks  polished  with  the  footfalls  of 
undertakers'  stiffs,  greased  mannikins,  wearing  up-to- 
the-minute  sox,  lifting  heels  across  doorsills, 
shoving  their  faces  ahead  of  them — dead  from  the 
neck  up — proud  of  their  sox — their  sox  are  the  last 
word — dead  from  the  neck  up — it  is  easy. 


The  Windy  City 


Lash  yourself  to  the  bastion  of  a  bridge 
and  listen  while  the  black  cataracts  of  people  go  by, 
baggage,  bundles,  balloons, 
listen  while  they  jazz  the  classics: 

"  Since  when  did  you  kiss  yourself  in 
And  who  do  you  think  you  are? 
Come  across,  kick  in,  loosen  up. 
Where  do  you  get  that  chatter?  " 

"  Beat  up  the  short  change  artists. 
They  never  did  nothin'  for  you. 
How  do  you  get  that  way? 
Tell  me  and  I'll  tell  the  world. 
I'll  say  so,  I'll  say  it  is." 

"  You're  trying  to  crab  my  act. 
You  poor  fish,  you  mackerel, 
You  ain't  got  the  sense  God 
Gave  an  oyster — it's  raining — 
What  you  want  is  an  umbrella." 

"  Hush  baby— 
I  don't  know  a  thing. 
I  don't  know  a  thing. 

Hush  baby." 

"  Hush  baby, 
It  ain't  how  old  you  are, 


The  Windy  City 

It's  how  old  you  look. 

It  ain't  what  you  got, 

It's  what  you  can  get  away  with." 


"  Bring  home  the  bacon. 
Put  it  over,  shoot  it  across. 

Send  'em  to  the  cleaners. 
What  we  want  is  results,  re-suits 

And  damn  the  consequences. 

Sh  .  .  .  sh.  .  .  . 
You  can  fix  anything 
If  you  got  the  right  fixers." 

"  Kid  each  other,  you  cheap  skates. 
Tell  each  other  you're  all  to  the  mustard — 
You're  the  gravy." 

"Tell  'em,  honey. 
Ain't  it  the  truth,  sweetheart? 

Watch  your  step. 

You  said  it. 

You  said  a  mouthful. 
We're  all  a  lot  of  damn  fourflushers." 

"  Hush  baby! 

Shoot  it, 

Shoot  it  alii 

Coo  coo,  coo  coo  " — 
This  is  one  song  of  Chicago. 


The  Windy   City 


It  is  easy  to  come  here  a  stranger  and  show  the  whole 
works,  write  a  book,  fix  it  all  up — it  is  easy  to  come 
and  go  away  a  muddle-headed  pig,  a  bum  and  a 
bag  of  wind. 


Go  to  it  and  remember  this  city  fished  from  its 

depths  a  text:  "  independent  as  a  hog  on  ice." 

Venice  is  a  dream  of  soft  waters,  Vienna  and  Bagdad 
recollections  of  dark  spears  and  wild  turbans;  Paris 
is  a  thought  in  Monet  gray  on  scabbards,  fabrics, 
fagades;  London  is  a  fact  in  a  fog  filled  with  the 
moaning  of  transatlantic  whistles;  Berlin  sits  amid 
white  scrubbed  quadrangles  and  torn  arithmetics  and 
testaments;  Moscow  brandishes  a  flag  and  repeats  a 
dance  figure  of  a  man  who  walks  like  a  bear. 

Chicago  fished  from  its  depths  a  text:  Independent 
as  a  hog  on  ice. 


Forgive  us  if  the  monotonous  houses  go  mile  on  mile 
Along  monotonous  streets  out  to  the  prairies — 
If  the  faces  of  the  houses  mumble  hard  words 
At  the  streets — and  the  street  voices  only  say: 
"  Dust  and  a  bitter  wind  shall  come." 


The  Windy  City 

Forgive  us  if  the  lumber  porches  and  doorsteps 

Snarl  at  each  other — 

And  the  brick  chimneys  cough  in  a  close-up  of 

Each  other's  faces — 

And  the  ramshackle  stairways  watch  each  other 

As  thieves  watch — 

And  dooryard  lilacs  near  a  malleable  iron  works 

Long  ago  languished 

In  a  short  whispering  purple. 


And  if  the  alley  ash  cans 

Tell  the  garbage  wagon  drivers 

The  children  play  the  alley  is  Heaven 

And  the  streets  of  Heaven  shine 

With  a  grand  dazzle  of  stones  of  gold 

And  there  are  no  policemen  in  Heaven — 

Let  the  rag-tags  have  it  their  way. 

And  if  the  geraniums 

In  the  tin  cans  of  the  window  sills 

Ask  questions  not  worth  answering — 

And  if  a  boy  and  a  girl  hunt  the  sun 

With  a  sieve  for  sifting  smoke — 

Let  it  pass — let  the  answer  be — 

"  Dust  and  a  bitter  wind  shall  come." 


Forgive  us  if  the  jazz  timebeats 
Of  these  clumsy  mass  shadows 
Moan  in  saxophone  undertones, 


IO  The  Windy  City 

And  the  footsteps  of  the  jungle, 

The  fang  cry,  the  rip  claw  hiss, 

The  sneak-up  and  the  still  watch, 

The  slant  of  the  slit  eyes  waiting — 

If  these  bother  respectable  people 

with  the  right  crimp  in  their  napkins 
reading  breakfast  menu  cards — 
forgive  us — let  it  pass— let  be. 

If  cripples  sit  on  their  stumps 

And  joke  with  the  newsies  bawling, 

"  Many  lives  lost!  many  lives  lost! 

Ter-ri-ble  ac-ci-dent!   many  lives  lost!  " — 

If  again  twelve  men  let  a  woman  go, 

"  He  done  me  wrong;  I  shot  him  "- 

Or  the  blood  of  a  child's  head 

Spatters  on  the  hub  of  a  motor  truck — 

Or  a  44-gat  cracks  and  lets  the  skylights 

Into  one  more  bank  messenger — 

Or  if  boys  steal  coal  in  a  railroad  yard 

And  run  with  humped  gunnysacks 

While  a  bull  picks  off  one  of  the  kids 

And  the  kid  wriggles  with  an  ear  in  cinders 

And  a  mother  comes  to  carry  home 

A  bundle,  a  limp  bundle, 

To  have  his  face  washed,  for  the  last  time, 

Forgive  us  if  it  happens — and  happens  again — 

And  happens  again. 

Forgive  the  jazz  timebeat 
of  clumsy  mass  shadows, 


The  Windy  City  II 

footsteps  of  the  jungle, 

the  fang  cry,  the  rip  claw  hiss, 

the  slant  of  the  slit  eyes  waiting. 

Forgive  us  if  we  work  so  hard 

And  the  muscles  bunch  clumsy  on  us 

And  we  never  know  why  we  work  so  hard- 

If  the  big  houses  with  little  families 

And  the  little  houses  with  big  families 

Sneer  at  each  other's  bars  of  misunderstanding; 

Pity  us  when  we  shackle  and  kill  each  other 

And  believe  at  first  we  understand 

And  later  say  we  wonder  why. 

Take  home  the  monotonous  patter 

Of  the  elevated  railroad  guard  in  the  rush  hours: 

"  Watch  your  step.   Watch  your  step.    Watch  your  step." 

Or  write  on  a  pocket  pad  what  a  pauper  said 

To  a  patch  of  purple  asters  at  a  whitewashed  wall: 

"  Let  every  man  be  his  own  Jesus — that's  enough." 


The  wheelbarrows  grin,  the  shovels  and  the  mortar 

hoist  an  exploit. 
The  stone  shanks  of  the  Monadnock,  the  Transportation, 

the  People's  Gas  Building,  stand  up  and  scrape 

at  the  sky. 
The  wheelbarrows  sing,  the  bevels  and  the  blue  prints 

whisper. 


12  The  Windy  City 

The  library  building  named  after  Crerar,  naked 
as  a  stock  farm  silo,  light  as  a  single  eagle 
feather,  stripped  like  an  airplane  propeller, 
takes  a  path  up. 

Two  cool  new  rivets  say,  "  Maybe  it  is  morning," 
"  God  knows." 

Put  the  city  up ;  tear  the  city  down ; 

put  it  up  again;  let  us  find  a  city. 
Let  us  remember  the  little  violet-eyed 

man  who  gave  all,  praying,  "  Dig  and 

dream,  dream  and  hammer,  till  your 

city  comes." 

Every  day  the  people  sleep  and  the  city  dies; 
every  day  the  people  shake  loose,  awake  and 
build  the  city  again. 

The  city  is  a  tool  chest  opened  every  day, 
a  time  clock  punched  every  morning, 
a  shop  door,  bunkers  and  overalls 
counting  every  day. 

The  city  is  a  balloon  and  a  bubble  plaything 

shot  to  the  sky  every  evening,  whistled  in 
a  ragtime  jig  down  the  sunset. 

The  city  is  made,  forgotten,  and  made  again, 
trucks  hauling  it  away  haul  it  back 
steered  by  drivers  whistling  ragtime 
against  the  sunsets. 


The  Windy  City  13 

Every  day  the  people  get  up  and  carry  the  city, 
carry  the  bunkers  and  balloons  of  the  city, 
lift  it  and  put  it  down. 

"  I  will  die  as  many  times 
as  you  make  me  over  again, 
says  the  city  to  the  people, 
"  I  am  the  woman,  the  home,  the  family, 
I  get  breakfast  and  pay  the  rent; 
I  telephone  the  doctor,  the  milkman,  the  undertaker; 
I  fix  the  streets 

for  your  first  and  your  last  ride — 
"  Come  clean  with  me,  come  clean  or  dirty, 
I  am  stone  and  steel  of  your  sleeping  numbers; 
I  remember  all  you  forget. 
I  will  die  as  many  times 
as  you  make  me  over  again." 

Under  the  foundations, 

Over  the  roofs, 

The  bevels  and  the  blue  prints  talk  it  over. 

The  wind  of  the  lake  shore  waits  and  wanders. 

The  heave  of  the  shore  wind  hunches  the  sand  piles. 

The  winkers  of  the  morning  stars  count  out  cities 

And  forget  the  numbers. 

7 

At  the  white  clock-tower 
lighted  in  night  purples 
over  the  boulevard  link  bridge 
only  the  blind  get  by  without  acknowledgments. 


I4  The  Windy  City 

The  passers-by,  factory  punch-clock  numbers, 
hotel  girls  out  for  the  air,  teameoes, 
coal  passers,  taxi  drivers,  window  washers, 
paperhangers,  floorwalkers,  bill  collectors, 
burglar  alarm  salesmen,  massage  students, 
manicure  girls,  chiropodists,  bath  rubbers, 
booze  runners,  hat  cleaners,  armhole  basters, 
delicatessen  clerks,  shovel  stiffs,  work  plugs — 

They  all  pass  over  the  bridge,  they  all  look  up 
at  the  white  clock-tower 
lighted  in  night  purples 
over  the  boulevard  link  bridge — 
And  sometimes  one  says,  "  Well,  we  hand  it  to  'em." 

Mention  proud  things,  catalogue  them. 

The  jack-knife  bridge  opening,  the  ore  boats, 
the  wheat  barges  passing  through. 

Three  overland  trains  arriving  the  same  hour, 
one  from  Memphis  and  the  cotton  belt, 
one  from  Omaha  and  the  corn  belt, 
one  from  Duluth,  the  lumberjack  and  the  iron  range. 

Mention  a  carload  of  shorthorns  taken  off  the  valleys 
of  Wyoming  last  week,  arriving  yesterday,  knocked  in 
the  head,  stripped,  quartered,  hung  in  ice  boxes 
to-day,  mention  the  daily  melodrama  of  this  hum- 
drum, rhythms  of  heads,  hides,  heels,  hoofs  hung  up. 

8 

It  is  wisdom  to  think  the  people  are  the  city. 
It  is  wisdom  to  think  the  city  would  fall  to  pieces 
and  die  and  be  dust  in  the  wind. 


The  Windy  City  15 

If  the  people  of  the  city  all  move  away  and  leave  no 

people  at  all  to  watch  and  keep  the  city. 
It  is  wisdom  to  think  no  city  stood  here  at  all  until 

the  working  men,  the  laughing  men,  came. 
It  is  wisdom  to  think  to-morrow  new  working  men,  new 

laughing  men,  may  come  and  put  up  a  new  city — 
Living  lighted  skyscrapers  and  a  night  lingo  of  lanterns 

testify  to-morrow  shall  have  its  own  say-so. 

9 

Night  gathers  itself  into  a  ball  of  dark  yarn. 

Night  loosens  the  ball  and  it  spreads. 

The  lookouts  from  the  shores  of  Lake  Michigan 
find  night  follows  day,  and  ping!   ping!   across 
sheet  gray  the  boat  lights  put  their  signals. 

Night  lets  the  dark  yarn  unravel,  Night  speaks  and 
the  yarns  change  to  fog  and  blue  strands. 

The  lookouts  turn  to  the  city. 

The  canyons  swarm  with  red  sand  lights 

of  the  sunset. 
The  atoms  drop  and  sift,  blues  cross  over, 

yellows  plunge. 
Mixed  light  shafts  stack  their  bayonets, 

pledge  with  crossed  handles. 
So,  when  the  canyons  swarm,  it  is  then  the 

lookouts  speak 

Of  the  high  spots  over  a  street  .   .   .  mountain  language 
Of  skyscrapers  in  dusk,  the  Railway  Exchange, 
The  People's  Gas,  the  Monadnock,  the  Transportation, 
Gone  to  the  gloaming. 


1 6  The  Windy  City 

The  river  turns  in  a  half  circle. 

The  Goose  Island  bridges  curve 
over  the  river  curve. 
Then  the  river  panorama 
performs  for  the  bridge, 
dots  .   .   .  lights  .   .   .  dots  .   .   .  lights, 
sixes  and  sevens  of  dots  and  lights, 
a  lingo  of  lanterns  and  searchlights, 
circling  sprays  of  gray  and  yellow. 


10 

A  man  came  as  a  witness  saying: 

"  I  listened  to  the  Great  Lakes 

And  I  listened  to  the  Grand  Prairie, 

And  they  had  little  to  say  to  each  other, 

A  whisper  or  so  in  a  thousand  years. 

'  Some  of  the  cities  are  big,'  said  one. 

'  And  some  not  so  big,'  said  another. 

1  And  sometimes  the  cities  are  all  gone,' 

Said  a  black  knob  bluff  to  a  light  green  sea." 

Winds  of  the  Windy  City,  come  out  of  the  prairie, 

all  the  way  from  Medicine  Hat. 
Come  out  of  the  inland  sea  blue  water,  come  where 

they  nickname  a  city  for  you. 

Corn  wind  in  the  fall,  come  off  the  black  lands, 
come  off  the  whisper  of  the  silk  hangers, 
the  lap  of  the  flat  spear  leaves. 


The  Windy  City  17 

Blue  water  wind  in  summer,  come  off  the  blue  miles 
of  lake,  carry  your  inland  sea  blue  fingers, 
carry  us  cool,  carry  your  blue  to  our  homes. 

White  spring  winds,  come  off  the  bag  wool  clouds, 
come  off  the  running  melted  snow,  come  white 
as  the  arms  of  snow-born  children. 

Gray  fighting  winter  winds,  come  along  on  the  tear- 
ing blizzard  tails,  the  snouts  of  the  hungry 
hunting  storms,  come  fighting  gray  in  winter. 

Winds  of  the  Windy  City, 

Winds  of  corn  and  sea  blue, 

Spring  wind  white  and  fighting  winter  gray, 

Come  home  here — they  nickname  a  city  for  you. 

The  wind  of  the  lake  shore  waits  and  wanders. 
The  heave  of  the  shore  wind  hunches  the  sand  piles. 
The  winkers  of  the  morning  stars  count  out  cities 
And  forget  the  numbers. 


1 8  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


WASHINGTON   MONUMENT   BY  NIGHT 


THE  stone  goes  straight. 

A  lean  swimmer  dives  into  night  sky, 

Into  half-moon  mist. 

2 

Two  trees  are  coal  black. 

This  is  a  great  white  ghost  between. 

It  is  cool  to  look  at. 

Strong  men,  strong  women,  come  here. 


Eight  years  is  a  long  time 
To  be  fighting  all  the  time. 


The  republic  is  a  dream. 

Nothing  happens  unless  first  a  dream. 


The  wind  bit  hard  at  Valley  Forge  one  Christmas. 
Soldiers  tied  rags  on  their  feet. 


Washington  Monument  by  Night       19 

Red  footprints  wrote  on  the  snow  .  .  . 
.  .  .  and  stone  shoots  into  stars  here 
.  .  .  into  half-moon  mist  to-night. 


Tongues  wrangled  dark  at  a  man. 
He  buttoned  his  overcoat  and  stood  alone. 
In  a  snowstorm,  red  hollyberries,  thoughts, 
he  stood  alone. 


Women  said:  He  is  lonely 

.  .  .  fighting  .  .  .  fighting  .  .  .  eight  years  . 


The  name  of  an  iron  man  goes  over  the  world. 
It  takes  a  long  time  to  forget  an  iron  man. 


20  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


AND   SO  TO-DAY 

AND  so  to-day — they  lay  him  away — 
the  boy  nobody  knows  the  name  of — 
the  buck  private — the  unknown  soldier — 
the  doughboy  who  dug  under  and  died 
when  they  told  him  to — that's  him. 


Down  Pennsylvania  Avenue  to-day  the  riders  go, 
men  and  boys  riding  horses,  roses  in  their  teeth, 
stems  of  roses,  rose  leaf  stalks,  rose  dark  leaves — 
the  line  of  the  green  ends  in  a  red  rose  flash. 


Skeleton  men  and  boys  riding  skeleton  horses, 

the  rib  bones  shine,  the  rib  bones  curve, 

shine  with  savage,  elegant  curves — 

a  jawbone  runs  with  a  long  white  slant, 

a  skull  dome  runs  with  a  long  white  arch, 

bone  triangles  click  and  rattle, 

elbows,  ankles,  white  line  slants — 

shining  in  the  sun,  past  the  White  House, 

past  the  Treasury  Building,  Army  and  Navy  Buildings, 

on  to  the  mystic  white  Capitol  Dome — 

so  they  go  down  Pennsylvania  Avenue  to-day, 

skeleton  men  and  boys  riding  skeleton  horses, 

stems  of  roses  in  their  teeth, 


And  So  To-day  21 

rose  dark  leaves  at  their  white  jaw  slants — 
and  a  horse  laugh  question  nickers  and  whinnies, 
moans  with  a  whistle  out  of  horse  head  teeth: 
why?   who?   where? 

(  "  The  big  fish— eat  the  little  fish— 
the  little  fish — eat  the  shrimps — 
and  the  shrimps — eat  mud." — 
said  a  cadaverous  man — with  a  black  umbrella — 
spotted  with  white  polka  dots — with  a  missing 
ear — with  a  missing  foot  and  arms — 
with  a  missing  sheath  of  muscles 
singing  to  the  silver  sashes  of  the  sun.) 

And  so  to-day — they  lay  him  away — 
the  boy  nobody  knows  the  name  of — 
the  buck  private — the  unknown  soldier — 
the  doughboy  who  dug  under  and  died 
when  they  told  him  to — that's  him. 

If  he  picked  himself  and  said,  "  I  am  ready  to  die," 
if  he  gave  his  name  and  said,  "  My  country,  take  me," 
then  the  baskets  of  roses  to-day  are  for  the  Boy, 
the  flowers,  the  songs,  the  steamboat  whistles, 
the  proclamations  of  the  honorable  orators, 
they  are  all  for  the  Boy — that's  him. 

If  the  government  of  the  Republic  picked  him  saying, 
"You  are  wanted,  your  country  takes  you" — 
if  the  Republic  put  a  stethoscope  to  his  heart 
and  looked  at  his  teeth  and  tested  his  eyes  and  said, 


22  And  So   To-day 

"  You  are  a  citizen  of  the  Republic  and  a  sound  animal 
in  all  parts  and  functions — the  Republic  takes  you  " — 
then  to-day  the  baskets  of  flowers  are  all  for  the  Republic, 
the  roses,  the  songs,  the  steamboat  whistles, 
the  proclamations  of  the  honorable  orators — 
they  are  all  for  the  Republic. 


And  so  to-day — they  lay  him  away — 
and  an  understanding  goes — his  long  sleep  shall  be 
under  arms  and  arches  near  the  Capitol  Dome — 
there   is   an   authorization — he   shall   have   tomb    com- 
panions— 

the  martyred  presidents  of  the  Republic — 
the  buck  private — the  unknown  soldier — that's  him. 

The  man  who  was  war  commander  of  the  armies  of  the 

Republic 

rides  down  Pennsylvania  Avenue — 
The  man  who  is  peace  commander  of  the  armies  of  the 

Republic 

rides  down  Pennsylvania  Avenue — 
for  the  sake  of  the  Boy,  for  the  sake  of  the  Republic. 

(And  the  hoofs  of  the  skeleton  horses 
all  drum  soft  on  the  asphalt  footing — 
so  soft  is  the  drumming,  so  soft  the  roll  call 
of  the  grinning  sergeants  calling  the  roll  call — 
so  soft  is  it  all — a  camera  man  murmurs,  "  Moon- 
shine.") 


And  So  To-day  23 

Look — who  salutes  the  coffin — 

lays  a  wreath  of  remembrance 

on  the  box  where  a  buck  private 

sleeps  a  clean  dry  sleep  at  last — 

look — it  is  the  highest  ranking  general 

of  the  officers  of  the  armies  of  the  Republic. 


(Among  pigeon  corners  of  the  Congressional  Library 
— they  file  documents  quietly,  casually,  all  in  a  day's 
work — this  human  document,  the  buck  private 
nobody  knows  the  name  of — they  file  away  in  gran- 
ite and  steel — with  music  and  roses,  salutes,  proc- 
lamations of  the  honorable  orators.) 

Across  the  country,  between  two  ocean  shore  lines, 

where  cities  cling  to  rail  and  water  routes, 

there  people  and  horses  stop  in  their  foot  tracks, 

cars  and  wagons  stop  in  their  wheel  tracks — 

faces  at  street  crossings  shine  with  a  silence 

of  eggs  laid  in  a  row  on  a  pantry  shelf — 

among  the  ways  and  paths  of  the  flow  of  the  Republic 

faces  come  to  a  standstill,  sixty  clockticks  count — 

in  the  name  of  the  Boy,  in  the  name  of  the  Republic. 

(A  million  faces  a  thousand  miles  from  Pennsylvania 
Avenue  stay  frozen  with  a  look,  a  clocktick,  a 
moment — skeleton  riders  on  skeleton  horses — the 
nickering  high  horse  laugh,  the  whinny  and  the 
howl  up  Pennsylvania  Avenue:  who?  why?  where?) 


24  And  So   To-day 

(So  people  far  from  the  asphalt  footing  of  Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue  look,  wonder,  mumble — the  riding 
white-jaw  phantoms  ride  hi-eeee,  hi-eeee,  hi-yi,  hi-yi, 
hi-eeee — the  proclamations  of  the  honorable  orators 
mix  with  the  top-sergeants  whistling  the  roll  call.) 

If  when  the  clockticks  counted  sixty, 

when  the  heartbeats  of  the  Republic 

came  to  a  stop  for  a  minute, 

if  the  Boy  had  happened  to  sit  up, 

happening  to  sit  up  as  Lazarus  sat  up,  in  the  story, 

then  the  first  shivering  language  to  drip  off  his  mouth 

might    have    come    as,    "  Thank    God,"    or    "  Am    I 

dreaming?  " 

or  "  What  the  hell  "  or  "  When  do  we  eat?  " 
or  "  Kill  'em,  kill  'em,  the  .  .  ." 
or  "  Was  that  ...  a  rat  ...  ran  over  my  face?  " 
or  "  For  Christ's  sake,  gimme  water,  gimme  water," 

or  "  Blub  blub,  bloo  bloo " 

or  any  bubbles  of  shell  shock  gibberish 
from  the  gashes  of  No  Man's  Land. 

Maybe  some  buddy  knows, 
some  sister,  mother,  sweetheart, 
maybe  some  girl  who  sat  with  him  once 
when  a  two-horn  silver  moon 
slid  on  the  peak  of  a  house-roof  gable, 
and  promises  lived  in  the  air  of  the  night, 
when  the  air  was  filled  with  promises, 
when  any  little  slip-shoe  lovey 
could  pick  a  promise  out  of  the  air. 


And  So  To-day  25 

"  Feed  it  to  'em, 

they  lap  it  up, 

bull  ...  bull  .  .  .  bull," 
Said  a  movie  news  reel  camera  man, 
Said  a  Washington  newspaper  correspondent, 
Said  a  baggage  handler  lugging  a  trunk, 
Said  a  two-a-day  vaudeville  juggler, 
Said  a  hanky-pank  selling  jumping-jacks. 
"  Hokum — they  lap  it  up,"  said  the  bunch. 


And  a  tall  scar-face  ball  player, 

Played  out  as  a  ball  player, 

Made  a  speech  of  his  own  for  the  hero  boy, 

Sent  an  earful  of  his  own  to  the  dead  buck  private: 

"  It's  all  safe  now,  buddy, 

Safe  when  you  say  yes, 

Safe  for  the  yes-men." 


He  was  a  tall  scar-face  battler 

With  his  face  in  a  newspaper 

Reading  want  ads,  reading  jokes, 

Reading  love,  murder,  politics, 

Jumping  from  jokes  back  to  the  want  ads, 

Reading  the  want  ads  first  and  last, 

The  letters  of  the  word  JOB,  "  J-O-B," 

Burnt  like  a  shot  of  bootleg  booze 

In  the  bones  of  his  head — 

In  the  wish  of  his  scar-face  eyes. 


26  And  So  To-day 

The  honorable  orators, 

Always  the  honorable  orators, 

Buttoning  the  buttons  on  their  prinz  alberts, 

Pronouncing  the  syllables  "  sac-ri-fice," 

Juggling  those  bitter  salt-soaked  syllables — 

Do  they  ever  gag  with  hot  ashes  in  their  mouths? 

Do  their  tongues  ever  shrivel  with  a  pain  of  fire 

Across  those  simple  syllables  "  sac-ri-fice  "  ? 

(There  was  one  orator  people  far  off  saw. 
He  had  on  a  gunnysack  shirt  over  his  bones, 
And  he  lifted  an  elbow  socket  over  his  head, 
And  he  lifted  a  skinny  signal  finger. 
And  he  had  nothing  to  say,  nothing  easy — 
He  mentioned  ten  million  men,  mentioned  them  as  having 
gone  west,  mentioned  them  as  shoving  up  the  daisies. 
We  could  write  it  all  on  a  postage  stamp,  what  he  said. 
He  said  it  and  quit  and  faded  away, 
A  gunnysack  shirt  on  his  bones.) 

Stars  of  the  night  sky, 

did  you  see  that  phantom  fadeout, 

did  you  see  those  phantom  riders, 

skeleton  riders  on  skeleton  horses, 

stems  of  roses  in  their  teeth, 

rose  leaves  red  on  white-jaw  slants, 

grinning  along  on  Pennsylvania  Avenue, 

the  top-sergeants  calling  roll  calls — 

did  their  horses  nicker  a  horse  laugh? 

did  the  ghosts  of  the  boney  battalions 

move  out  and  on,  up  the  Potomac,  over  on  the  Ohio, 


And  So   To-day  27 

and  out  to  the  Mississippi,  the  Missouri,  the  Red 

River, 

and  down  to  the  Rio  Grande,  and  on  to  the  Yazoo, 
over  to  the  Chattahoochee  and  up  to  the  Rappa- 

hannock? 
did  you  see  'em,  stars  of  the  night  sky? 

And  so  to-day — they  lay  him  away — 
the  boy  nobody  knows  the  name  of — 
they  lay  him  away  in  granite  and  steel — 
with  music  and  roses — under  a  flag — 
under  a  sky  of  promises. 


28  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


BLACK  HORIZONS 

BLACK  horizons,  come  up. 

Black  horizons,  kiss  me. 

That  is  all;  so  many  lies;  killing  SD  cheap; 

babies  so  cheap ;  blood,  people,  so  cheap ;  and 

land  high,  land  dear;  a  speck  of  the  earth 

costs;  a  suck  at  the  tit  of  Mother  Dirt  so 

clean  and  strong,  it  costs;  fences,  papers, 

sheriffs;  fences,  laws,  guns;  and  so  many 

stars  and  so  few  hours  to  dream ;  such  a  big 

song  and  so  little  a  footing  to  stand  and 

sing;  take  a  look;  wars  to  come;  red  rivers 

to  cross. 

Black  horizons,  come  up. 

Black  horizons,  kiss  me. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  29 


SEA    SLANT 

ON  up  the  sea  slant, 
On  up  the  horizon, 
This  ship  limps. 

The  bone  of  her  nose  fog-gray, 
The  heart  of  her  sea-strong, 
She  came  a  long  way, 
She  goes  a  long  way. 

On  up  the  horizon, 
On  up  the  sea-slant, 
She  limps  sea-strong,  fog-gray . 

She  is  a  green-lit  night  gray. 
She  comes  and  goes  in  sea  fog. 
Up  the  horizon  slant  she  limps. 


30  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


UPSTREAM 

THE  strong  men  keep  coming  on. 
They  go  down  shot,  hanged,  sick, 

broken. 
They  live  on  fighting,  singing, 

lucky  as  plungers. 
The  strong  mothers  pulling  them 

on  .  . 
The  strong  mothers  pulling  them 

from  a  dark  sea,  a  great  prairie, 

a  long  mountain. 
Call  hallelujah,  call  amen,  call 

deep  thanks. 
The  strong  men  keep  coming  on. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  31 


FOUR  STEICHEN  PRINTS 

THE  earth,  the  rock  and  the  oil  of  the  earth,  the 
slippery  frozen  places  of  the  earth,  these  are  for  homes 
of  rainbow  bubbles,  curves  of  the  circles  of  a  bubble, 
curves  of  the  arcs  of  the  rainbow  prisms — between  sun 
and  rock  they  lift  to  the  sun  their  foam  feather  and  go. 

Throw  your  neck  back,  throw  it  back  till  the  neck 
muscles  shine  at  the  sun,  till  the  falling  hair  at  the 
scalp  is  a  black  cry,  till  limbs  and  knee  bones  form 
an  altar,  and  a  girl's  torso  over  the  fire-rock  torso  shouts 
hi  yi,  hi  yee,  hallelujah. 

Goat  girl  caught  in  the  brambles,  deerfoot  or  fox-head, 
ankles  and  hair  of  feeders  of  the  wind,  let  all  the  covering 
burn,  let  all  stopping  a  naked  plunger  from  plunging 
naked,  let  it  all  burn  in  this  wind  fire,  let  the  fire  have 
it  in  a  fast  crunch  and  a  flash. 

They  threw  you  into  a  pot  of  thorns  with  a  wreath  in 
your  hair  and  bunches  of  grapes  over  your  head — your 
hard  little  buttocks  in  the  thorns — then  the  black  eyes, 
the  white  teeth,  the  nameless  muscular  flair  of  you, 
rippled  and  twisted  in  sliding  rising  scales  of  laughter; 
the  earth  never  had  a  gladder  friend;  pigs,  goats,  deer, 
tawny  tough-haired  jaguars  might  understand  you. 


32  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


FINS 

PLOW  over  bars  of  sea  plowing, 
the  moon  by  moon  work  of  the  sea, 
the  plowing,  sand  and  rock,  must 
be  done. 

Ride  over,  ride  over  bars  of  sea  riding, 
the  sun  and  the  blue  riding  of  the  sea — 
sit  in  the  saddles  and  say  it,  sea  riders. 

Slant  up  and  go,  silver  breakers;  mix 
the  high  howls  of  your  dancing;  shoot 
your  laugh  of  rainbow  foam  tops. 

Foam  wings,  fly ;  pick  the  comers,  the  fin  pink, 
the  belly  green,  the  blue  rain  sparks,  the 
white  wave  spit — fly,  you  foam  wings. 

The  men  of  the  sea  are  gone  to  work ;  the  women 
of  the  sea  are  off  buying  new  hats,  combs,  clocks; 
it  is  rust  and  gold  on  the  roofs  of  the  sea. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  33 


BEAT,    OLD    HEART 

BEAT,  old  heart,  these  are  the  old  bars 
All  strugglers  have  beat  against. 
Beat  on  these  bars  like  the  old  sea    ^c. 
Beats  on  the  rocks  and  beaches.       <«- 
Beat  here  like  the  old  winter  winds    •' 
Beat  on  the  prairies  and  timbers.     -t> 
Old  grizzlies,  eagles,  buffalo, 
Their  paws  and  beaks  register  this.-^ 
Their  hides  and  heads  say  it  with  scars. 


34  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


MOON  RIDERS 


WHAT  have  I  saved  out  of  a  morning? 

The  earliest  of  the  morning  came  with  moon-mist 

And  the  travel  of  a  moon-spilt  purple; 

Bars,  horseshoes,  Texas  longhorns, 

Linked  in  night  silver, 

Linked  under  leaves  in  moonlit  silver, 

Linked  in  rags  and  patches 

Out  of  the  ice  houses  of  the  morning  moon. 

Yes,  this  was  the  earliest — 

Before  the  cowpunchers  on  the  eastern  rims 

Began  riding  into  the  sun, 

Riding  the  roan  mustangs  of  morning, 

Roping  the  mavericks  after  the  latest  stars. 

What  have  I  saved  out  of  a  morning? 

Was  there  a  child  face  I  saw  once 

Smiling  up  a  stairway  of  the  morning  moon? 


"  It  is  time  for  work,"  said  a  man  in  the  morning. 
He  opened  the  faces  of  the  clocks,  saw  their  works, 
Saw  the  wheels  oiled  and  fitted,  running  smooth. 
"  It  is  time  to  begin  a  day's  work,"  he  said  again, 
Watching  a  bull-finch  hop  on  the  rain-worn  boards 


Moon  Riders  35 

Of  a  beaten  fence  counting  its  bitter  winters. 
The  slinging  feet  of  the  bull-finch  and  the  flash 
Of  its  flying  feathers  as  it  flipped  away 
Took  his  eyes  away  from  the  clocks,  his  flying  eyes. 
He  walked  over,  stood  in  front  of  the  clocks  again 
And  said,  "  I'm  sorry;  I  apologize  forty  ways." 


The  morning  paper  lay  bundled 

Like  a  spear  in  a  museum 

Across  the  broken  sleeping  room 

Of  a  moon-sheet  spider. 

The  spinning  work  of  the  morning  spider's  feet 
Left  off  where  the  morning  paper's  pages  lay 
In  the  shine  of  the  web  in  the  summer  dew  grass. 
The  man  opened  the  morning  paper,  saw  the  first  page, 
The  back  page,  the  inside  pages,  the  editorials, 
Saw  the  world  go  by,  eating,  stealing,  fighting, 
Saw  the  headlines,  date  lines,  funnies,  ads, 
The  marching  movies  of  the  workmen  going  to  work, 

the  workmen  striking, 
The  workmen  asking  jobs — five  million  pairs  of  eyes  look 

for  a  boss  and  say,  "  Take  me" 
People  eating  with  too  much  to  eat,  people  eating  with 

nothing  in  sight  to  eat  to-morrow,  eating  as  though 

eating  belongs  where  people  belong. 

"  Hustle,  you  hustlers,  while  the  bustling's  good," 
Said  the  man,  turning  the  morning  paper's  pages, 
Turning  among  headlines,  date  lines,  funnies,  ads. 


36  Moon  Riders 

"  Hustlers  carrying  the  banner,"  said  the  man 
Dropping  the  paper  and  beginning  to  hunt  the  city, 
Hunting  the  alleys,  boulevards,  back-door  by-ways, 
Hunting  till  he  found  a  blind  horse  dying  alone, 
Telling  the  horse,  "  Two  legs  or  four  legs — it's  all  the 
same  with  a  work  plug." 

A  hayfield  mist  of  evening  saw  him 

Watching  moon  riders  lose  the  moon 

For  new  shooting  stars — he  asked, 
"  Christ,  what  have  I  saved  out  of  a  morning?  " 
He  called  up  a  stairway  of  the  morning  moon 
And  he  remembered  a  child  face  smiling  up  that  same 

stairway. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  37 


AT  THE   GATES   OF   TOMBS 

CIVILIZATIONS  are  set  up  and  knocked  down 
the  same  as  pins  in  a  bowling  alley. 

Civilizations  get  into  the  garbage  wagons 
and  are  hauled  away  the  same  as  potato 
peelings  or  any  pot  scrapings. 

Civilizations,  all  the  work  of  the  artists, 
inventors,  dreamers  of  work  and  genius, 
go  to  the  dumps  one  by  one. 

Be  silent  about  it;  since  at  the  gates  of  tombs 
silence  is  a  gift,  be  silent;  since  at  the  epitaphs 
written  in  the  air,  since  at  the  swan  songs  hung  in 
the  air,  silence  is  a  gift,  be  silent;  forget  it. 

If  any  fool,  babbler,  gabby  mouth,  stand  up  and  say: 
Let  us  make  a  civilization  where  the  sacred  and 
beautiful  things  of  toil  and  genius  shall  last — 

If  any  such  noisy  gazook  stands  up  and  makes  himself 
heard — put  him  out — tie  a  can  on  him — lock  him  up 
in  Leavenworth — shackle  him  in  the  Atlanta  hoosegow 
— let  him  eat  from  the  tin  dishes  at  Sing  Sing — 
slew  him  in  as  a  lifer  at  San  Ouentin. 


38  At  the  Gates  of  Tombs 

It  is  the  law;  as  a  civilization  dies  and  goes  down 
to  eat  ashes  along  with  all  other  dead  civilizations 
— it  is  the  law  all  dirty  wild  dreamers  die  first — 
gag  'em,  lock  'em  up,  get  'em  bumped  off. 

And  since  at  the  gates  of  tombs  silence  is  a  gift, 
be  silent  about  it,  yes,  be  silent — forget  it. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  39 


HAZARDOUS  OCCUPATIONS 

JUGGLERS  keep  six  bottles  in  the  air. 
Club  swingers  toss  up  six  and  eight. 
The  knife  throwers  miss  each  other's 

ears  by  a  hair  and  the  steel  quivers 

in  the  target  wood. 
The  trapeze  battlers  do  a  back-and-forth 

high  in  the  air  with  a  girl's  feet 

and  ankles  upside  down. 
So  they  earn  a  living — till  they  miss 

once,  twice,  even  three  times. 
So  they  live  on  hate  and  love  as  gypsies 

live  in  satin  skins  and  shiny  eyes. 
In  their  graves  do  the  elbows  jostle  once 

in  a  blue  moon — and  wriggle  to  throw 

a  kiss  answering  a  dreamed-of  applause? 
Do  the  bones  repeat:   It's  a  good  act — 

we  got  a  good  hand.  .  .  .  ? 


4-O  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


PROPS 


ROLL  open  this  rug;  a  minx  is 
in  it;  see  her  toe  wiggling; 
roll  open  the  rug;  she  is  a 
runaway;  or  somebody  is  trying 
to  steal  her;  here  she  is; 
here's  your  minx;  how  can  we 
have  a  play  unless  we  have 
this  minx? 


The  child  goes  out  in  the  storm 
stage  thunder;  "  erring  daughter, 
never  darken  this  door-sill  again  "; 
the  tender  parents  speak  their  curse; 
the  child  puts  a  few  knick-knacks  in 
a  handkerchief;  and  the  child  goes; 
the  door  closes  and  the  child  goes; 
she  is  out  now,  in  the  storm  on  the 
stage,  out  forever ;  snow,  you  son-of-a-gun, 
snow,  turn  on  the  snow. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  41 


GYPSY  MOTHER 

IN   a   hole-in-a-wall   on   Halsted    Street   sits    a   gypsy 

woman, 
In  a  garish  gas-lit  rendezvous,  in  a  humpback  higgling 

hole-in-a-wall. 

The  left  hand  is  a  tattler;  stars  and  oaths  and  alphabets 

Commit  themselves  and  tell  happenings  gone,  happenings 

to  come,  pathways  of  honest  people,  hypocrites. 

"  Long  pointed  fingers  mean  imagination;  a  star  on  the 
third  finger  says  a  black  shadow  walks  near." 

Cross  the  gypsy's  hand  with  fifty  cents  and  she  takes 
your  left  hand  and  reads  how  you  shall  be  happy  in 
love,  or  not,  and  whether  you  die  rich,  or  not. 

Signs  outside  the  hole-in-a-wall  say  so,  misspell  the 
promises,  scrawl  the  superior  gypsy  mysteries. 

A  red  shawl  on  her  shoulders  falls  with  a  fringe  hem  to 

a  green  skirt; 
Chains  of  yellow  beads  sweep  from  her  neck  to  her  tawny 

hands. 
Fifty  springtimes  must  have  kissed  her  mouth  holding  a 

calabash  pipe. 
She  pulls  slow  contemplative  puffs  of  smoke;  she  is  a 

shape  for  ghosts  of  contemplation  to  sit  around  and 


42  Gypsy  Mother 

ask  why  something  cheap  as  happiness  is  here  and 
more  besides,  chapped  lips,  rough  eyes,  red  shawl. 
She  is  thinking  about  somebody  and  something  the  same 
as  Whistler's  mother  sat  and  thought  about  some- 
body and  something. 

In  a  hole-in-a-wall  on  Halsted  Street  are  stars,  oaths, 
alphabets. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  43 

GOLD  MUD 

(For  R.  F.) 

THE  pot  of  gold  at  the  rainbow  end 
is  a  pot  of  mud,  gold  mud, 
slippery  shining  mud. 


Pour  it  on  your  hair  and  you  will 

have  a  golden  hair. 
Pour  it  on  your  cat  and  you  will 

have  a  golden  cat. 
Pour  it  on  your  clock  and  you  will 

have  a  golden  clock. 


Pour  it  on  a  dead  man's  thumb  and 
you  will  have  a  golden  thumb 
to  bring  you  bad  dreams. 

Pour  it  on  a  dead  woman's  ear  and 
you  will  have  a  golden  ear 
to  tell  hard  luck  stories  to. 

Pour  it  on  a  horse  chestnut  and  you 
will  have  a  golden  buckeye 
changing  your  luck. 


44  Gold  Mud 

Pour  it  in  the  shape  of  a  holy  cross, 

fasten  it  on  my  shirt  for  me  to  wear 
and  I  will  have  a  keepsake. 

I  will  touch  it  and  say  a  prayer  for  you. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  45 


CROSSING   THE    PACES 

THE  Sioux  sat  around  their  wigwam  fires 
in  winter  with  some  papooses  hung  up 
and  some  laid  down. 

And  the  Sioux  had  a  saying,  "  Love  grows 
like  hair  on  a  black  bear's  skin." 

The  Arabians  spill  this:  The  first  gray 
hair  is  a  challenge  of  death. 
A  Polish  blacksmith:  A  good  black- 
smith is  not  afraid  of  smoke. 
And  a  Scandinavian  warns:  The  world  was  born 
in  fire  and  he  who  is  fire  himself  will  be 
at  home  anywhere  on  earth. 
So  a  stranger  told  his  children:  You  are 
strangers — and  warned  them: 

Bob  your  hair;  or  let  it  grow  long; 

Be  a  company,  a  party,  a  picnic; 

Be  alone,  a  nut,  a  potato,  an  orange  blossom, 
a  keg  of  nails ;  if  you  get  lost  try  a 
want  ad;  if  night  comes  try  a  long  sleep. 


46  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


COUPLES 

Six  miasmic  women  in  green 
danced  an  absinthe  dance 
hissing  oaths  of  laughter 
at  six  men  they  cheated. 

Six  miasmic  men  did  the  same 
for  six  women  they  cheated. 

It  was  a  stand-off 

in  oaths  of  laughter  hissed; 

The  dirt  is  hard  where  they  danced. 
The  pads  of  their  feet  made  a  floor. 

The  weeds  wear  moon  mist  mourning  veils. 
The  weeds  come  high  as  six  little  crosses, 
One  little  cross  for  each  couple. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West         47 


CALIGARI 

MANNIKINS,  we  command  you. 

Stand  up  with  your  white  beautiful  skulls. 

Stand  up  with  your  moaning  sockets. 

Dance  your  stiff  limping  dances. 

We  handle  you  with  spic  and  span  gloves. 

We  tell  you  when  and  how 

And  how  much. 


48  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 

FEATHER  LIGHTS 

MACABRE  and  golden  the  moon  opened  a  slant  of  light. 

A  triangle  for  an  oriole  to  stand  and  sing,  "  Take  me 
home." 

A  layer  of  thin  white  gold  feathers  for  a  child  queen  of 
gypsies. 

So  the  moon  opened  a  slant  of  light  and  let  it  go. 

So  the  lonesome  dogs,  the  fog  moon,  the  pearl  mist, 
came  back. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  49 


PEARL  HORIZONS 

UNDER  a  prairie  fog  moon 

in  a  circle  of  pearl  mist  horizons, 

a  few  lonesome  dogs  scraping  thongs, 

midnight  is  lonely;  the  fog  moon  midnight 

takes  up  again  its  even  smooth  November. 

Memories:  you  can  flick  me  and  sting  me. 
Memories,  you  can  hold  me  even  and  smooth. 

A  circle  of  pearl  mist  horizons 
is  not  a  woman  to  be  walked  up  to  and  kissed, 
nor  a  child  to  be  taken  and  held  for  a  good-night, 
nor  any  old  coffee-drinking  pal  to  be  smiled  at  in 
the  eyes  and  left  with  a  grip  and  a  handshake. 

Pearl  memories  in  the  mist  circling  the  horizon, 
flick  me,  sting  me,  hold  me  even  and  smooth. 


50  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


HOOF  DUSK 

THE  dusk  of  this  box  wood 
is  leather  gold,  buckskin  gold, 
and  the  hoofs  of  a  dusk  goat 
leave  their  heel  marks  on  it. 

The  cover  of  this  wooden  box 
is  a  last-of-the-sunset  red, 
a  red  with  a  sandman  sand 
fixed  in  evening  siftings — 
late  evening  sands  are  here. 

The  gold  of  old  clocks, 
forgotten  in  garrets, 
hidden  out  between  battles 
of  long  wars  and  short  wars, 
the  smoldering  ember  gold 
of  old  clocks  found  again — 
here  is  the  small  smoke  fadeout 
of  their  slow  loitering. 

Feel  me  with  your  fingers, 

measure  me  in  fire  and  wind: 

maybe  I  am  buckskin  gold,  old  clock  gold, 

late  evening  sunset  sand — 

Let  go 

and  loiter 

in  the  smoke  fadeout. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


HARSK,   HARSK 


HARSK,  harsk,  the  wind  blows  to-night. 
What  a  night  for  a  baby  to  come  into  the  world! 
What  a  night  for  a  melodrama  baby  to  come 
And  the  father  wondering 
And  the  mother  wondering 
What  the  years  will  bring  on  their  stork  feet 
Till  a  year  when  this  very  baby  might  be  saying 
On  some  storm  night  when  a  melodrama  baby  is  born: 
"What  a  night 
for  a  baby 

to  come  into  the  world ! !  " 
Harsk,  harsk,  the  wind  blows  to-night. 


It  is  five  months  off. 

Knit,  stitch,  and  hemstitch. 

Sheets,  bags,  towels,  these  are  the  offerings. 

When  he  is  older — or  she  is  a  big  girl — 

There  may  be  flowers  or  ribbons  or  money 

For  birthday  offerings.    Now,  however, 

We  must  remember  it  is  a  naked  stranger 

Coming  to  us,  and  the  sheath  of  the  arrival 


52  Harsk,  Harsk 

Is  so  soft  we  must  be  ready,  and  soft  too. 
Knit,  stitch,  hemstitch,  it  is  only  five  months. 


It  would  be  easy  to  pick  a  lucky  star  for  this  baby 
If  a  choice  of  two  stars  lay  before  our  eyes, 
One  a  pearl  gold  star  and  one  pearl  silver, 
And  the  offer  of  a  chance  to  pick  a  lucky  star. 


When  the  high  hour  comes 

Let  there  be  a  light  flurry  of  snow, 

A  little  zigzag  of  white  spots 

Against  the  gray  roofs. 
The  snow-born  all  understand  this  as  a  luck-wish. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West         53 


BRANCUSI 

BRANCUSI  is  a  galoot;  he  saves  tickets  to  take  him  no- 
where ;  a  galoot  with  his  baggage  ready  and  no  time  table ; 
ah  yes,  Brancusi  is  a  galoot;  he  understands  birds  and 
skulls  so  well,  he  knows  the  hang  of  the  hair  of  the  coils 
and  plaits  on  a  woman's  head,  he  knows  them  so  far  back 
he  knows  where  they  came  from  and  where  they  are 
going;  he  is  fathoming  down  for  the  secrets  of  the  first 
and  the  oldest  makers  of  shapes. 

Let  us  speak  with  loose  mouths  to-day  not  at  all  about 
Brancusi  because  he  has  hardly  started  nor  is  hardly  able 
to  say  the  name  of  the  place  he  wants  to  go  when  he  has 
time  and  is  ready  to  start;  O  Brancusi,  keeping  hardwood 
planks  around  your  doorsteps  in  the  sun  waiting  for  the 
hardwood  to  be  harder  for  your  hard  hands  to  handle, 
you  Brancusi  with  your  chisels  and  hammers,  birds  going 
to  cones,  skulls  going  to  eggs — how  the  hope  hugs  your 
heart  you  will  find  one  cone,  one  egg,  so  hard  when  the 
earth  turns  mist  there  among  the  last  to  go  will  be  a 
cone,  an  egg. 

Brancusi,  you  will  not  put  a  want  ad  in  the  papers  telling 
God  it  will  be  to  his  advantage  to  come  around  and  see 
you;  you  will  not  grow  gabby  and  spill  God  earfuls  of 
prayers;  you  will  not  get  fresh  and  familiar  as  if  God 
is  a  next-door  neighbor  and  you  have  counted  His  shirts 


54  Brancusi 

on  a  clothes  line;  you  will  go  stammering,  stuttering  and 
mumbling  or  you  will  be  silent  as  a  mouse  in  a  church 
garret  when  the  pipe  organ  is  pouring  ocean  waves  on 
the  sunlit  rocks  of  ocean  shores;  if  God  is  saving  a  corner 
for  any  battling  bag  of  bones,  there  will  be  one  for  you, 
there  will  be  one  for  you,  Brancusi. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West         55 


AMBASSADORS   OF   GRIEF 

THERE  was  a  little  fliv  of  a  woman  loved  one  man  and 
lost  out.  And  she  took  up  with  another  and  it  was  a 
blank  again.  And  she  cried  to  God  the  whole  layout 
was  a  fake  and  a  frame-up.  And  when  she  took  up  with 
Number  Three  she  found  the  fires  burnt  out,  the  love 
power,  gone.  And  she  wrote  a  letter  to  God  and  dropped 
it  in  a  mail-box.  The  letter  said: 

0  God,  ain't  there  some  way  you  can  fix  it  up  so  the 
little  flivs  of  women,  ready  to  throw  themselves  in  front 
of  railroad  trains  for  men  they  love,  can  have  a  chance? 

1  guessed  the  wrong  keys,  I  battered  on  the  wrong  panels, 
I  picked  the  wrong  roads.    O  God,  ain't  there  no  way  to 
guess  again  and  start  all  over  back  where  I  had  the  keys 
in  my  hands,  back  where  the  roads  all  came  together  and 
I  had  my  pick? 

And  the  letter  went  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  dumped  into  a 
dump  where  all  letters  go  addressed  to  God — and  no 
house  number. 


56  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 

WITHOUT  THE  CANE  AND  THE  DERBY 

(For  C.  C.) 

THE  woman  had  done  him  wrong. 

Either  that  ...  or  the  woman  was  clean  as  a  white  rose 
in  the  morning  gauze  of  dew. 

It  was  either  one  or  the  other  or  it  was  the  two  things, 
right  and  wrong,  woven  together  like  two  braids  of 
a  woman's  head  of  hair  hanging  down  woven  together. 
/ 

The  room  is  dark.  The  door  opens.  It  is  Charlie  playing 
for  his  friends  after  dinner,  "  the  marvelous  urchin, 
the  little  genius  of  the  screen,"  (chatter  it  like  a 
monkey's  running  laughter  cry.) 

No  ...  it  is  not  Charlie  ...  it  is  somebody  else.  It 
is  a  man,  gray  shirt,  bandana,  dark  face.  A  candle 
in  his  left  hand  throws  a  slant  of  light  on  the  dark 
face.  The  door  closes  slow.  The  right  hand  leaves 
the  door  knob  slow. 

He  looks  at  something.  What  is  it?  A  white  sheet  on  a 
table.  He  takes  two  long  soft  steps.  He  runs  the 
candle  light  around  a  hump  in  the  sheet.  He  lifts  the 
sheet  slow,  sad  like. 

A  woman's  head  of  hair  shows,  a  woman's  white  face.  He 
takes  the  head  between  his  hands  and  looks  long  at 


Without  the  Cane  and  the  Derby       57 

it.  His  fingers  trickle  under  the  sheet,  snap  loose 
something,  bring  out  fingers  full  of  a  pearl  necklace. 
He  covers  the  face  and  the  head  of  hair  with  the  white 
sheet.  He  takes  a  step  toward  the  door.  The  necklace 
slips  into  his  pocket  off  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand. 
His  left  hand  lifts  the  candle  for  a  good-by  look. 

Knock,  knock,  knock.  A  knocking  the  same  as  the  time 

of  the  human  heartbeat. 
Knock,  knock,  knock,  first  louder,  then  lower.     Knock, 

knock,  knock,  the  same  as  the  time  of  the  human 

heartbeat. 
He  sets  the  candle  on  the  floor  .  .  .  leaps  to  the  white 

sheet  .  .  .  rips  it  back  .  .  .  has  his  fingers  at  the 

neck,  his  thumbs  at  the  throat,  and  does  three  slow 

fierce  motions  of  strangling. 
The  knocking  stops.  All  is  quiet.  He  covers  the  face  and 

the  head  of  hair  with  the  white  sheet,  steps  back, 

picks  up  the  candle  and  listens. 
Knock,  knock,  knock,  a  knocking  the  same  as  the  time 

of  the  human  heartbeat. 
Knock,  knock,  knock,  first  louder,  then  lower.     Knock, 

knock,  knock,  the  same  as  the  time  of  the  human 

heartbeat. 
Again  the  candle  to  the  floor,  the  leap,  the  slow  fierce 

motions  of  strangling,  the  cover-up  of  the  face  and 

the  head  of  hair,  the  step  back,  the  listening. 
And   again   the   knock,  knock,   knock  .  .  .  louder  .  .  . 

lower  ...  to  the  time  of  the  human  heartbeat. 
Once    more    the    motions    of    strangling  .  .  .then  .  .  . 

nothing   at   all  ...  nothing   at   all  ...  no    more 


58  Without  the  Cane  and  the  Derby 

knocking  ...  no  knocking  at  all  ...  no  knocking 
at  all  .      .  in  the  time  of  the  human  heartbeat. 


He  stands  at  the  door  .  .  .  peace,  peace,  peace  every- 
where only  in  the  man's  face  so  dark  and  his  eyes 
so  lighted  up  with  many  lights,  no  peace  at  all,  no 
peace  at  all. 

So  he  stands  at  the  door,  his  right  hand  on  the  door  knob, 
the  candle  slants  of  light  fall  and  flicker  from  his 
face  to  the  straight  white  sheet  changing  gray  against 
shadows. 

So  there  is  peace  everywhere  ...  no  more  knocking  .  .  . 
no  knocking  at  all  to  the  time  of  the  human  heart- 
beat .  .  .  so  he  stands  at  the  door  and  his  right  hand 
on  the  door  knob. 

And  there  is  peace  everywhere  .  .  .  only  the  man's  face 
is  a  red  gray  plaster  of  storm  in  the  center  of  peace 
...  so  he  stands  with  a  candle  at  the  door  ...  so 
he  stands  with  a  red  gray  face. 

After  he  steps  out  the  door  closes;  the  door,  the  door 
knob,  the  table,  the  white  sheet,  there  is  nothing  at 
all;  the  owners  are  shadows;  the  owners  are  gone; 
not  even  a  knocking;  not  even  a  knock,  knock, 
knock  .  .  .  louder,  lower,  in  the  time  of  the  human 
heartbeat. 

The  lights  are  snapped  on.  Charlie,  "  the  marvelous 
urchin,  the  little  genius  of  the  screen"  (chatter  it 
with  a  running  monkey's  laughter  cry)  Charlie  is 
laughing  a  laugh  the  whole  world  knows. 


Without  the  Cane  and  the  Derby       59 

The  room  is  full  of  cream  yellow  lights.  Charlie  is 
laughing  .  .  .  louder  .  .  .  lower  .  .  . 

And  again  the  heartbeats  laugh  ...  the  human  heart- 
beats laugh.  .  .  . 


60  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


THE   RAKEOFF   AND   THE    GETAWAY 

"  SHALL  we  come  back?  "  the  gamblers  asked. 

"  If  you  want  to,  if  you  feel  that  way,"  the  answer. 

And  they  must  have  wanted  to, 

they  must  have  felt  that  way; 

for  they  came  back, 

hats  pulled  down  over  their  eyes 

as  though  the  rain  or  the  policemen 

or  the  shadows  of  a  sneaking  scar-face  Nemesis 

followed  their  tracks  and  hunted  them  down. 

"What  was  the  clean-up?     Let's  see  the  rakeoff," 

somebody  asked  them,  looking  into  their  eyes 

far  under  the  pulled-down  hat  rims; 

and  their  eyes  had  only  the  laugh  of  the  rain  in  them, 

lights  of  escape  from  a  sneaking  scar- face  Nemesis 

hunting  their  tracks,  hunting  them  down. 

Anvils,  pincers,  mosquitoes,  anguish,  raspberries, 

steaks  and  gravy,  remorse,  ragtime,  slang, 

a  woman's  looking  glass  to  be  held  in  the  hand 

for  looking  at  the  face  and  the  face  make-up, 

blackwing  birds  fitted  onto  slits 

of  the  sunsets  they  were  flying  into, 

bitter  green  waters,  clear  running  waters, 


The  Rakeoff  and  the  Getaway          61 

standing  pools  ringing  the  changes 

of  all  the  triangles  of  the  equinoxes  of  the  sky, 

and  a  woman's  slipper 

with  a  tarnished  buckle, 

a  tarnished  Chinese  silver  buckle. 


The  gamblers  snatched  their  hats  off  babbling, 
"  Some  layout — take  your  pick,  kid." 

And  their  eyes  had  yet  in  them 
the  laugh  of  the  rain 
and  the  lights  of  their  getaway 
from  a  sneaking  scar- face  Nemesis. 


62  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


TWO  HUMPTIES 

THEY  tried  to  hand  it  to  us  on  a  platter, 

Us    hit    in    the    eyes    with    marconigrams    from    moon 

dancers — 
And  the  bubble  busted,  went  flooey,  on  a  thumb  touch. 

So  this  time  again,  Humpty, 
We  cork  our  laughs  behind  solemn  phizzogs, 
Sweep  the  floor  with  the  rim  of  our  hats 
And  say  good-a-by  and  good-a-by,  just  like  that. 

To-morrow  maybe  they  will  be  hit 
In  the  eyes  with  marconigrams 
From  moon  dancers. 
Good-a-by,  our  hats  and  all  of  us  say  good-a-by. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  63 


IMPROVED    FARM    LAND 

TALL  timber  stood  here  once,  here  on  a  corn  belt  farm 

along  the  Monon. 
Here  the  roots  of  a  half  mile  of  trees  dug  their  runners 

deep  in  the  loam  for  a  grip  and  a  hold  against  wind 

storms. 
Then  the  axmen  came  and  the  chips  flew  to  the  zing  of 

steel  and  handle — the  lank  railsplitters  cut  the  big 

ones  first,  the  beeches  and  the  oaks,  then  the  brush. 
Dynamite,   wagons   and   horses   took   the   stumps — the 

plows  sunk  their  teeth  in — now  it  is  first  class  corn 

land — improved  property — and  the  hogs  grunt  over 

the  fodder  crops. 
It  would  come  hard  now  for  this  half  mile  of  improved 

farm  land  along  the  Monon  corn  belt,  on  a  piece  of 

Grand  Prairie,  to  remember  once  it  had  a  great 

singing  family  of  trees. 


64  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


HELL   ON   THE   W ABASH 

WHEN  country  fiddlers  held  a  convention  in 

Danville,  the  big  money  went  to  a  barn  dance 

artist  who  played  Turkey  in  the  Straw,  with 

variations. 

They  asked  him  the  name  of  the  piece  calling 

it  a  humdinger   and  he  answered,   "  I   call   it 

1  Hell  On  The  Wabash.'  " 

The  two  next  best  were  The  Speckled  Hen,  and 

Sweet    Potatoes    Grow   in    Sandy    Land,   with 

variations. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  65 


THIS— FOR  THE  MOON— YES? 

THIS  is  a  good  book?    Yes? 

Throw  it  at  the  moon. 

Stand  on  the  ball  of  your  right  foot 

And  come  to  the  lunge  of  a  center  fielder 

Straddling  in  a  throw  for  the  home  plate, 

Let  her  go — spang — this  book  for  the  moon 

— yes? 
And  then — other  books,  good  books,  even  the 

best  books — shoot  'em  with  a  long  twist 

at  the  moon — yes? 


66  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 


PRIMER   LESSON 

LOOK  out  how  you  use  proud  words. 
When  you  let  proud  words  go,  it  is 

not  easy  to  call  them  back. 
They  wear  long  boots,  hard  boots ;  they 

walk  off  proud ;  they  can't  hear  you 

calling — 
Look  out  how  you  use  proud  words. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  67 


SLABS  OF  THE  SUNBURNT  WEST 


INTO  the  night,  into  the  blanket  of  night, 
Into  the  night  rain  gods,  the  night  luck  gods, 
Overland  goes  the  overland  passenger  train. 

Stand  up,  sandstone  slabs  of  red, 
Tell  the  overland  passengers  who  burnt  you. 

Tell  'em  how  the  jacks  and  screws  loosened  you. 

Tell  'em  who  shook  you  by  the  heels  and  stood  you  on 

your  heads, 
Who  put  the  slow  pink  of  sunset  mist  on  your  faces. 

Panels  of  the  cold  gray  open  night, 

Gates  of  the  Great  American  Desert, 

Skies  keeping  the  prayers  of  the  wagon  men, 
The  riders  with  picks,  shovels  and  guns, 

On  the  old  trail,  the  Santa  Fe  trail,  the  Raton  pass 

Panels,  skies,  gates,  listen  to-night  while  we  send  up  our 
prayers  on  the  Santa  Fe  trail. 

(A  colossal  bastard  frog 
squats  in  stone. 
Once  he  squawked. 
Then  he  was  frozen  and 
shut  up  forever.) 


68  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 

Into  the  night  the  overland  passenger  train, 
Slabs  of  sandstone  red  sink  to  the  sunset  red, 
Blankets  of  night  cover  'em  up. 
Night  rain  gods,  night  luck  gods,  are  looking  on. 

March  on,  processions. 
Tie  your  hat  to  the  saddle  and  ride,  O  Rider. 
Let  your  ponies  drag  their  navels  in  the  sand. 
Go  hungry;  leave  your  bones  in  the  desert  sand. 
When  the  desert  takes  you  the  wind  is  clean. 
The  winds  say  so  on  a  noisy  night. 

The  fingerbone  of  a  man 
lay  next  to  the  handle  of  a  frying  pan 
and  the  footbone  of  a  horse. 

"  Clean,  we  are  clean,"  the  winds  whimper  on  a  noisy 

night. 

Into  the  night  the  overland  passenger  train, 
And  the  engineer  with  an  eye  for  signal  lights, 
And  the  porters  making  up  berths  for  passengers, 
And  the  boys  in  the  diner  locking  the  ice-box — 
And   six   men  with   cigars   in   the   buffet   car   mention 
"  civilization,"   "  history,"   "  God." 

Into  the  blanket  of  night  goes  the  overland  train, 
Into  the  black  of  the  night  the  processions  march, 

The  ghost  of  a  pony  goes  by, 

A  hat  tied  to  the  saddle, 

The  wagon  tongue  of  a  prairie  schooner 

And  the  handle  of  a  Forty-niner's  pickax 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  69 

Do  a  shiver  dance  in  the  desert  dust, 
In  the  coyote  gray  of  the  alkali  dust. 
And — six  men  with  cigars  in  the  buffet  car  mention 
"  civilization,"   "  history,"   "  God." 

Sleep,  O  wonderful  hungry  people. 
Take  a  shut-eye,  take  a  long  old  snooze, 

and  be  good  to  yourselves; 
Into  the  night  the  overland  passenger  train 
And  the  sleepers  cleared  for  a  morning  sun 

and  the  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona. 


2 

A  bluejay  blue 

and  a  gray  mouse  gray 

ran  up  the  canyon  walls. 

A  rider  came  to  the  rim 

Of  a  slash  and  a  gap  of  desert  dirt — 

A  long-legged  long-headed  rider 

On  a  blunt  and  a  blurry  jackass — 

Riding  and  asking,  "  How  come?  How  come?  " 

And  the  long-legged  long-headed  rider  said: 

"  Between  two  ears  of  a  blurry  jackass 

I  see  ten  miles  of  auburn,  gold  and  purple — 

I  see  doors  open  over  doorsills 

And  always  another  door  and  a  doorsill. 

Cheat  my  eyes,  fill  me  with  the  float 

Of  your  dream,  you  auburn,  gold,  and  purple. 


70  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 

Cheat  me,  blow  me  off  my  pins  onto  footless  floors. 

Let  me  put  footsteps  in  an  airpath. 

Cheat  me  with  footprints  on  auburn,  gold,  purple 

Out  to  the  last  violet  shimmer  of  the  float 

Of  the  dream — and  I  will  come  straddling  a  jackass, 

Singing  a  song  and  letting  out  hallelujahs 

To  the  door  sill  of  the  last  footprint." 

And  the  man  took  a  stub  lead  pencil 
And  made  a  long  memo  in  shorthand 
On  the  two  blurry  jackass  ears: — 

"  God  sits  with  long  whiskers  in  the  sky." 
I  said  it  when  I  was  a  boy. 
I  said  it  because  long-whiskered  men 
Put  it  in  my  head  to  say  it. 

They  lied  .  .  .  about  you  .  .  .  God  .  .  . 

They  lied.  .  .  . 

The  other  side  of  the  five  doors 

and  doorsills  put  in  my  house — 

how  many  hinges,  panels,  doorknobs, 

how  many  locks  and  lintels, 

put  on  the  doors  and  doorsills 

winding  and  wild  between 

the  first  and  the  last  doorsill  of  all? 

"  Out  of  the  footprints  on  ten  miles 

of  auburn,  gold  and  purple — an  old  song  comes: 

These  bones  shall  rise  again, 

Yes,  children,  these  bones  shall  rise. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  71 

"  Yonder  past  my  five  doors 

are  fifty  million  doors,  maybe, 

stars  with  knobs  and  locks  and  lintels, 

stars  with  riders  of  rockets, 

stars  with  swimmers  of  fire. 


"  Cheat  my  eyes — and  I  come  again — 
straddling  a  jackass — singing  a  song — 
letting  out  hallelujahs. 

"  If  God  is  a  proud  and  a  cunning  Bricklayer, 

Or  if  God  is  a  King  in  a  white  gold  Heaven, 

Or  if  God  is  a  Boss  and  a  Watchman  always  watching, 

I  come  riding  the  old  ride  of  the  humiliation, 

Straddling  a  jackass,  singing  a  song, 

Letting  out  hallelujahs. 

"  Before  a  ten  mile  float 
of  auburn,  gold,  and  purple, 
footprints  on  a  sunset  airpath  haze, 

I  ask: 

How  can  I  taste  with  my  tongue  a  tongueless  God? 
How  can  I  touch  with  my  fingers  a  fingerless  God? 
How  can  I  hear  with  my  ears  an  earless  God? 
Or  smell  of  a  God  gone  noseless  long  ago? 
Or  look  on  a  God  who  never  needs  eyes  for  looking? 

"  My  head  is  under  your  foot,  God. 
My  head  is  a  pan  of  alkali  dust 
your  foot  kicked  loose — your  foot  of  air 
with  its  steps  on  the  sunset  airpath  haze. 


72  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 

(A  bluejay  blue 

and  a  gray  mouse  gray 

ran  up  the  canyon  walls.) 

"  Sitting  at  the  rim  of  the  big  gap 

at  the  high  lash  of  the  frozen  storm  line, 

I  ask  why  I  go  on  five  crutches, 

tongues,  ears,  nostrils — all  cripples — 

eyes  and  nose — both  cripples — 

I  ask  why  these  five  cripples 

limp  and  squint  and  gag  with  me, 

why  they  say  with  the  oldest  frozen  faces: 

Man  is  a  poor  stick  and  a  sad  squirt; 

if  he  is  poor  he  can't  dress  up ; 

if  he  dresses  up  he  don't  know  any  place  to  go. 

"  Away  and  away  on  some  green  moon 

a  blind  blue  horse  eats  white  grass 

And  the  blind  blue  horse  knows  more  than  I  do 
because  he  saw  more  than  I  have  seen 
and  remembered  it  after  he  went  blind. 

"  And  away  and  away  on  some  other  green  moon 

is  a  sea-kept  child  who  lacks  a  nose  I  got 

and  fingers  like  mine  and  all  I  have. 

And  yet  the  sea-kept  child  knows  more  than 

I  do  and  sings  secrets  alien  to  me  as  light 

to  a  nosing  mole  underground. 

I  understand  this  child  as  a  yellow-belly 

catfish  in  China  understands  peach  pickers 

at  sunrise  in  September  in  a  Michigan  orchard. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  73 

"  The  power  and  lift  of  the  sea 

and  the  flame  of  the  old  earth  fires  under, 

I  sift  their  meanings  of  sand  in  my  fingers. 

I  send  out  five  sleepwalkers  to  find  out  who  I  am, 
my  name  and  number,  where  I  came  from, 
and  where  I  am  going. 

They  go  out,  look,  listen,  wonder,  and  shoot  a  fire-white 
rocket  across  the  night  sky;  the  shot  and  the  flare 
of  the  rocket  dies  to  a  whisper;  and  the  night  is  the 
same  as  it  always  was. 

They  come  back,  my  five  sleepwalkers;  they  have  an 
answer  for  me,  they  say;  they  tell  me:  Wait — the 
password  all  of  them  heard  when  the  fire- white  rocket 
shot  across  the  sky  and  died  to  a  whisper,  the  pass- 
word is:  Wait. 

"  I  sit  with  five  binoculars,  amplifiers,  spectroscopes 

I  sit  looking  through  five  windows,  listening,   tasting, 

smelling,  touching. 

I  sit  counting  five  million  smoke  fogs. 
Repeaters,  repeaters,  come  back  to  my  window  sills. 
Some  are  pigeons  coming  to  coo  and  coo  and  clean  their 

tail  feathers  and  look  wise  at  me. 
Some  are  pigeons  coming  with  broken  wings  to  die  with 

pain  in  their  eyes  on  my  window  sills. 

"  I  walk  the  high  lash  of  the  frozen  storm  line; 
I  sit  down  with  my  feet  in  a  ten-mile  gravel  pit. 
Here  I  ask  why  I  am  a  bag  of  sea-water  fastened 
to  a  frame  of  bones  put  walking  on  land — here  I 
look  at  crawlers,  crimson,  spiders  spotted  with 


74  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 

purple  spots  on  their  heads,  flinging  silver  nets, 
two,  four,  six,  against  the  sun. 
Here  I  look  two  miles  down  to  the  ditch  of  the  sea 
and  pick  a  winding  ribbon,  a  river  eater,  a  water 
grinder ;  it  is  a  runner  sent  to  run  by  a  stop-watch, 
it  is  a  wrecker  on  a  rush  job." 


(A  bluejay  blue 

and  a  gray  mouse  gray 

ran  up  the  canyon  walls.) 


Battering  rams,  blind  mules,  mounted  policemen, 
trucks  hauling  caverns  of  granite,  elephants 
grappling  gorillas  in  a  death  strangle,  cathedrals, 
arenas,  platforms,  somersaults  of  telescoped  rail- 
road train  wrecks,  exhausted  egg  heads,  piles  of 
skulls,  mountains  of  empty  sockets,  mummies  of  kings 
and  mobs,  memories  of  work  gangs  and  wrecking  crews, 
sobs  of  wind  and  water  storms,  all  frozen  and  held 
on  paths  leading  on  to  spirals  of  new  zigzags — 


An  arm-chair  for  a  one-eyed  giant; 

two  pine  trees  grow  in  the  left  arm  of  the  chair; 

a  bluejay  comes,  sits,  goes,  comes  again; 

a  bluejay  shoots  and  twitters  .  .  out  and  across 

tumbled  skyscrapers  and  wrecked  battleships, 

walls  of  crucifixions  and  wedding  breakfasts; 

ruin,  ruin — a  brute  gnashed,  dug,  kept  on — 

kept  on  and  quit:  and  this  is  It. 


Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West  75 

Falling  away,  the  brute  is  working. 

Sheets  of  white  veils  cross  a  woman's  face. 

An  eye  socket  glooms  and  wonders. 

The  brute  hangs  his  head  and  drags  on  to  the  job. 

The  mother  of  mist  and  light  and  air  murmurs:  Wait. 


The  weavers  of  light  weave  best  in  red, 
better  in  blue. 

The  weavers  of  shadows  weave  at  sunset; 

the  young  black-eyed  women  run,  run,  run 
to  the  night  star  homes;  the  old  women 
sit  weaving  for  the  night  rain  gods, 
the  night  luck  gods. 

Eighteen  old  giants  throw  a  red  gold  shadow  ball ; 
they  pass  it  along;  hands  go  up  and  stop  it;  they 
bat  up  flies  and  practice;  they  begin  the  game,  they 
knock  it  for  home  runs  and  two-baggers ;  the  pitcher 
put  it  across  in  an  out-  and  an  in-shoot  drop;  the 
Devil  is  the  Umpire;  God  is  the  Umpire;  the  game 
is  called  on  account  of  darkness. 

A  bluejay  blue 

and  a  gray  mouse  gray 

ran  up  the  canyon  walls. 


Good  night ;  it  is  scribbled  on  the  panels 
of  the  cold  grey  open  desert. 


76  Slabs  of  the  Sunburnt  West 

Good  night;  on  the  big  sky  blanket  over  the 
Santa  Fe  trail  it  is  woven  in  the  oldest 
Indian  blanket  songs. 

Buffers  of  land,  breakers  of  sea,  say  it  and 
say  it,  over  and  over,  good  night,  good  night. 

Tie  your  hat  to  the  saddle 
and  ride,  ride,  ride,  O  Rider. 
Lay  your  rails  and  wires 
and  ride,  ride,  ride,  0  Rider. 

The  worn  tired  stars  say 

you  shall  die  early  and  die  dirty. 

The  clean  cold  stars  say 

you  shall  die  late  and  die  clean. 

The  runaway  stars  say 
you  shall  never  die  at  all, 
never  at  all. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  belov 


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